The Fire of Malice || The Witcher

Chapter Six

Shani had waited until a few hours after dusk before she dared to go back to the house. She had easily found all of the supplies that she needed at the market. Plus a few that she didn't, just in case. While she had shopped, she was careful to hide her face, feigning an extreme aversion to getting wet. No one seemed suspicious of it. They probably thought she was some spoiled child, sent to get medicine in the rain. Still, she was careful not to buy too much in one location. She must have gone to half a dozen merchants, which took a lot longer than was actually necessary.

With her bag filled to the brim, she cautiously strode towards the abandoned house, checking her surroundings to make sure no one was watching. Preoccupied as she was with making sure she was alone, she didn't even notice the door was open until she reached for the handle.

That's when her heart plummeted.

The door had been bashed open, swaying on its hinges. Mouth suddenly dry, she rushed inside. There were bodies everywhere. Two were right next to the door—witch hunters. Her eyes landed on the third only to realize that it was Geralt, dead on the floor.

No—not dead.

The slightest movement of his chest restored the color that had drained from her face. In two steps she was next to him, feeling for his vitals. "Geralt?" He was ice cold and there was a lot of blood collected around him. It wasn't good. She could barely feel a pulse and her touch engendered no response.

It was easy enough to find the source of his decay. The bandages were soaked through with blood radiating outward from a nasty stab wound. Shani dashed to the back room for her suture kit, knocking over a dozen other bottles and medical instruments and almost tripping over yet another dead witch hunter in her haste.

She hadn't seen Triss. That could only mean one thing. They had taken Triss and left Geralt for dead. There was nothing she could do for Triss, not yet anyway. She needed to focus her attention on Geralt right now.

The stitches were the easy part. She could have stitched someone torn in half back together again with her eyes closed. It was maneuvering Geralt to where she could get at his wound that took some effort. In the end, she just pulled his legs out further so that he was lying flat on his back, then flipped him over to treat the exit wound. She had even packed in a few ointments of her own making that would help stop the bleeding and facilitate healing. But her work wasn't done yet.

Geralt was cold, much too cold. Especially for how much blood he had lost. Gods, he was practically blue. If she didn't warm him up soon, he might never recover. The front door wouldn't stay closed on account of how damaged it was so she had to drag the armchair in front of it. It would work as a nice barricade in any case should the witch hunters decide they would return. Geralt was too heavy for Shani to carry to the bed by herself so she made him as comfortable as possible where he lay on the floor, placing a pillow under his head and throwing as many blankets and cloaks as she could over him. She lit the stove, grateful herself for the heat it emitted.

She had done all she could.

It was up to Geralt now.

~~~

In his waking dreams, Geralt was burning once more, drowning in flames. He made to scream, to run, to fight in any way he could. But as logic returned to his mind, he realized this was a different kind of heat. It was pleasant, warm. Like a cat basking in the sun, he soaked it in, relishing in its comfort. Thankful for once that he could enjoy its soft touch.

Suddenly the warmth had a sound. Gentle crackling and spitting. The smell of damp wood burning pervaded his senses.

Then that crack of pain reared its ugly head and everything came flooding back.