Chapter 14: Ancient Remedies
The coarseness of the linen bandage was a familiar texture under Geralt's fingers, but the skin beneath was anything but. Thorn’s leg was fever-hot, the muscle around the psychophage’s gashes taut and inflamed. He worked the poultice—a thick paste of Gotfred's Endurance and crushed redonite ore—into the wounds with a firm, circular pressure that he knew was agony.
Thorn hissed, their back arching off the straw-stuffed mattress, fingers clawing at the worn blanket. “A little warning next time, Wolf. Or do you enjoy this?”
“It needs to be deep,” Geralt grunted, not slowing his methodical movements. The poultice sizzled faintly, drawing out the infection with a scent like burned oregano and ozone. “The muscle’s shredded. It’ll heal weak if it’s not knit together right from the start.”
“It’ll heal weak regardless if I starve to death,” Thorn bit out, their head falling back against the pillow. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on their pale brow. Their eyes, squeezed shut, flickered behind the lids. “This entity… it doesn’t much care for failure. Even perceived failure. Lets just say losing a fight, even one you win for me, is… disrespectful. It sours the connection. Makes everything harder. Slower.”
Geralt paused, looking from the wound to their face. “You said it was about victory. Pride.”
A weak, ragged laugh escaped Thorn. They opened their eyes, the lilac hue dulled by pain. “Pride is the upside. The reward for a victory well-earned. The downside… is the penalty for humiliation. That thing in the library bested me. Took me down like a novice. Makes me look weak. Makes my patron look weak by association.” They gestured vaguely at their legs. “Hence, this takes ten times the energy it should.”
He resumed his work, his touch decidedly lighter as he began winding a fresh bandage around the cleaned gashes. “You don’t seem the type to care much about looking weak.”
“It’s not about caring, Geralt. It’s about the metaphysical mechanics of the bargain.” They winced as he tightened the bandage. “I am a vessel. The power flows better when the vessel is… gleaming. Uncompromised. A chipped cup still holds water, but not as well.” They managed a sideways glance at him, a ghost of their old smirk playing on their lips. “As for the pride aspect… I think that one’s fairly self-evident, don’t you?”
Geralt tied off the bandage with a firm knot. “Get some rest. I’ll get food.”
Downstairs, The Gilded Pike was hitting its evening stride. The air was thick with the smell of stewed meat, cheap ale, and damp wool. A bard was butchering a ballad in the corner, his lute strings buzzing. Geralt shouldered his way through the crowd, a silent island of white hair and worn leather, his medallion vibrating faintly against his chest. Not from magic. From tension.
He secured a tray with a heavy bowl of mutton stew, a hunk of dark bread, and a pitcher of water. As he turned, his gaze swept the room. It was a habit, a constant inventory of threats. Most of the patrons were merchants and trappers, their talk loud and mundane. But in a shadowed booth near the back, two men were doing the same thing he was: watching. They weren't talking. They were drinking slowly, their eyes constantly moving. Their clothes were travel-stained but well-made, their boots practical and scarred. Hunters. But not for animals.
Geralt’s path back to the stairs took him within a few feet of their table. One of the men, a bald brute with a network of broken capillaries across his nose, met his gaze for a second too long. There was no recognition there, just a cold, professional assessment. Geralt stared back until the man looked away, focusing on his tankard.
Upstairs, the atmosphere was a world apart. Thorn had managed to prop themself up against the headboard. They looked exhausted, but their eyes tracked him as he entered, locking onto the tray of food with a predator's focus.
“Salvation,” they breathed.
Geralt placed the tray on the bed beside them. “Eat. Slowly.” He walked to the window, shifting the thin curtain aside just enough to peer down into the muddy courtyard. The two men from the booth were now outside, talking quietly by the stables. One of them pointed toward the inn’s upper floors.
“We have company,” Geralt said, his voice low.
Thorn paused, a spoonful of stew halfway to their mouth. “Local color? Or the specific kind of color that ends with swords being drawn?”
“The specific kind. Two of them. Down by the stables. They’re professionals.”
Thorn sighed, dropping the spoon back into the bowl. The brief vitality the food had brought vanished from their face. “Of course they are. It was only a matter of time.” They looked at their bandaged legs, a flicker of genuine fear in their eyes now, washing the lilac into a pale, worried green. “I can’t run, Geralt. I can barely stand. A glamor won’t stop a crossbow bolt.”
Geralt let the curtain fall back into place. The room was steeped in the quiet sounds of Thorn’s ragged breathing and the distant murmur of the tavern below. He drew his steel sword from its scabbard lying against the wall. The sound was a soft, lethal whisper in the dim light.
“You don’t have to run,” he said, his voice calm and flat. He walked to the door, bolting it with a solid thunk of iron. He dragged the room’s heavy wooden washstand in front of it, barricading them in. It wouldn’t hold for long, but it would give him a second’s warning.
He turned back to face the room, placing himself squarely between the barred door and the bed. He held the steel sword loosely, its point resting on the floorboards. The firelight from the hearth downstairs cast flickering shadows that danced along the blade.
“Then what’s the plan?” Thorn asked, their voice barely a whisper.
Geralt watched the door, his yellow eyes narrowed to slits. Every sense was stretched taut, listening for the creak of a floorboard in the hall, the murmur of voices approaching. He could hear the two men downstairs now, their footsteps heavy on the stairs. They weren't trying to be quiet anymore.
“The plan,” Geralt said, not taking his eyes from the door, “is they come through there. And I explain to them why that’s a bad idea.”
A heavy fist hammered against the door, once, shaking it in its frame. A voice, rough and gravelly, called out. “Open up. We just want to talk to the one who’s not human.”
Thorn’s gaze met Geralt’s. Their fear was still there, but now it was edged with a sharp, defiant anger. Their eyes began to smolder, the green darkening, hints of crimson bleeding in from the edges.
Geralt adjusted his grip on the sword, rolling his shoulders. The footsteps in the hall retreated a few steps. They were preparing to rush the door.
The washstand shuddered as a heavy weight slammed against the other side.
The door splintered around the iron bolt, wood groaning in protest.
Thorn let out a soft, pained laugh. “Which one of us do you suppose they mean?” they mused, their voice thin but laced with a dark amusement. “Wait.”
Before Geralt could move, the air in the room tightened. With a sharp gesture from Thorn’s hand, the barricading washstand screeched across the floorboards as if yanked by an invisible rope. The shattered door flew inward, revealing the two hunters, their faces set in determined snarls as they surged forward.
They barely made it two steps inside. The door slammed shut behind them with a final, thunderous crack, plunging the room into near darkness. From the corners, thick tendrils of pure shadow unspooled, moving with liquid speed. They wrapped around the men’s limbs and torsos, constricting like pythons, halting their charge mid-stride. The bald one grunted in shock, struggling against the impossible bonds.
Thorn hadn’t moved from the bed, their outstretched hand trembling slightly before dropping to the blanket. Their breathing was more labored now, a fine tremor running through their body. The faint glow in their crimson eyes dimmed.
Geralt stepped forward, the point of his steel sword coming to rest lightly on the throat of the struggling bald man. The other thrashed silently, shadows coiled over his mouth. The room was silent except for the ragged sound of Thorn’s breathing and the creak of straining leather.
“What do you want?” Geralt asked, his voice low and cold as river stone.
The bald man’s eyes bulged, fixed on the sword point denting the skin of his throat. “We’re just hired hands,” he rasped, the shadows around his chest tightening with his words. “The job’s the non-human. That one.” His gaze flicked toward Thorn.
“Specifics,” Geralt demanded, his voice devoid of all warmth.
“A village, two years back, up in the Kestrel Mountains,” the second man choked out, the dark tendrils loosening just enough for speech. “A creature was plaguing them. This one,” he nodded at Thorn, “showed up, did battle with it on the outskirts. Tore through a grain silo and a witch’s hut to do it.”
The bald hunter took over, a bitter edge to his voice. “Killed the beast, then just stood there laughing. Tossed a handful of gold coins into the mud like we were beggars and vanished into thin air.”
Geralt’s head turned slowly, his yellow eyes locking onto Thorn. The accusation in them was a physical weight.
Thorn had the decency to look momentarily abashed. “The situation was… fluid,” they offered, shifting weakly against the headboard. “The Drekavac was about to burrow into the village proper. A few collapsed structures were a calculated trade for dozens of lives. The gold was more than enough to rebuild!”
“The witch’s hut,” the second hunter grunted, straining against his bonds. “The local wise woman. You crushed her still, her reagents, everything. The gold didn’t cover her… displeasure.”
“She wants payment,” the bald man finished, his voice dropping to a grim whisper. “Specific payment. She wants your heart.”
A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the crackle of the fire downstairs. Geralt’s stare remained fixed on Thorn, unblinking.
Thorn sighed, a theatrical, weary sound. “It was a very old, very nasty Drekavac. And her hut was… unfortunately positioned. I said I was sorry. In a manner of speaking.” They gestured vaguely. “The laughter was a nervous reaction, I assure you.”
“You teleported away,” Geralt stated, his tone flat.
“It’s what I do!” Thorn protested, their voice gaining a faint, desperate energy. “It’s a signature flourish! It leaves an impression. How was I to know she’d hold a grudge over a simple hovel?”
Geralt finally looked away from Thorn and back to the hunters. He slowly lifted the sword from the man’s throat. “You’ve delivered your message. Now you can deliver one back.”
The shadows constricted again, not enough to choke, but as a clear warning.
“Tell the witch her payment isn’t available,” Geralt said, his voice low and final. “And if she sends anyone else, the next message will be delivered in person. With my steel.”
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward Thorn. The shadowy tendrils unwove themselves, slithering back into the corners of the room as if they had never been. The two hunters stumbled back, gasping, rubbing their sore limbs. They looked from Geralt’s impassive face to Thorn’s pale, defiant one, and then to the splintered door.
Without another word, they retreated, their footsteps hurried and unsteady in the hallway.
Geralt walked to the ruined doorway, watching them descend the stairs and flee into the night. He turned back to the room. Thorn was watching him, their expression unreadable.
“A calculated trade?” Geralt repeated, his voice a low rumble.
Thorn looked away, picking at the woolen blanket. “It sounded better in my head.”
Thorn’s justification hung in the air, thin and unconvincing. Geralt stared at them for a long moment, the splintered door framing his silent, broad-shouldered form. The tavern’s noise from below seemed to swell, a distant reminder of the world they’d just violently interrupted.
“We’re leaving,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. He turned and began gathering their few belongings, shoving the codex from the Sunken Library deep into his pack.
“Now?” Thorn’s voice was a mix of genuine pain and theatrical dismay. They gestured weakly at their bandaged legs. “Geralt, it’s the middle of the night. I just got comfortable. This is the first real bed I’ve felt in a month.”
“Those two were just the message. The witch’s real response will be louder.” He tossed Thorn’s travel-worn cloak onto the bed. “And she knows exactly where we are.”
“But the poultice needs time to work,” Thorn protested, though they were already reluctantly pushing the stew bowl aside. “A few hours? Until dawn? This inn has feather pillows. Feathers. We could be sleeping on rocks tomorrow.”
Geralt cinched his pack shut and looked at them, a flicker of dry amusement in his yellow eyes. “While we’re at it, is there any other peak, valley, or particularly sentimental shrub in this mountain range that might hold a grudge? I’d like to avoid any more surprises.”
Thorn paused, their fingers tracing the wool of the cloak. A faint, rueful smile touched their lips. “Well,” they began, avoiding his gaze. “There was that business with the Librarian’s Guild archives. But that was more of a copyright dispute. Very litigious, librarians.”
Geralt simply raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“Alright, fine,” they sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. “There’s a pass to the north, leads toward the Stone Spears. I might have… redirected a water elemental away from a druidic circle there a while back. They were rather possessive of it.”
“How possessive?”
“Let’s just say they believe in reclaiming what’s theirs.” Thorn met his eyes, their own shifting to a cautious, mossy green. “Vehemently.”
“Noted. We’ll go east.” Geralt moved to the window, assessing the dark, moon-washed streets. “Can you walk?”
Thorn pushed themself upright, a sharp gasp escaping as their weight settled on their legs. The glamor flickered, revealing the grimace of pain underneath the calm mask for a split second. “I’ll manage,” they breathed, pulling the cloak tight around their shoulders. “But I’m billing you for emotional distress. And a new door.”