Cerbin Part I

The rusty hinges of the inn door creaked shrilly. Those customers who were able to lifted their heads from their mugs and watched the newcomer with unforced curiosity.

A six-and-a-half-foot-tall figure stood in the entrance. Long, midnight-black hair fell over its remarkably pale face. The newcomer removed his thick gloves and tucked them into his belt, which hugged a black, studded jerkin, reinforced with strips of wyvern hide. A sword hilt protruded above his left shoulder.

The man, slowly scanning the inn, exuded mystery from a mile away. Yet everyone knew who the newcomer was. There was no mistaking this person for anyone else. He was a murderer of men, a slayer of monsters. A hired thug called Raven. A witcher

.

The newcomer moved toward the innkeeper. The potbellied innkeeper swallowed nervously. He felt fear bristle at the back of his neck. He glanced at the table where a trio of heavily armed rezuns, paid to maintain order in his inn, sat. They were watching the witcher, but the innkeeper could tell from their eyes that he couldn't count on them if Raven were to rampage through the hall. Even though they outnumbered him three to one, it was obvious to the scavengers that starting a fight with the mutant would be a sure death sentence.

For old Rychert, it wasn't so obvious. The inn's regular customer downed the last of his tankard and looked at the newcomer with blurry eyes. Finally, swaying, he rose from the table and, with a brisk, yet unsteady gait, blocked the witcher's path.

"Please, please," he stammered with difficulty, cackling insolently. "Who has visited us here? What a magnificent guest. Exceptional. This deserves a celebration, right, scoundrel?" Well, buy me a round!

The witcher tilted his head and looked Rychert straight in the eye. The drunkard, reeking of a mixture of vodka and stables, sobered up in a moment. Only one word came to the old rake's mind to describe the witcher's eyes: terrifying. Rychert was gazing at him with eyes whose irises were remarkably close to his vacant pupils. Eyes from which absolutely nothing could be read.

The dark image was complemented by an equally dark voice. The drunkard quickly realized this:

"Get out of my way, son of a bitch," the witcher said quietly, drawing out his words very slowly.

Rychert shrank and lowered his gaze. While initially, as he stood up from the table, he'd wanted to punch someone, no matter how menacing he looked, he now knew it would be a bad idea to mess with this freak alone. He just laughed disgustingly at the witcher, showing his rotten teeth, and slowly, twitching incoherently, he walked past him and left the premises.

The witcher approached the innkeeper.

"What's up, innkeeper?" he asked, leaning against the bar, not looking at the innkeeper at all, but observing the three rezuns.

"Peace, sir," the pot-bellied man stated in a gentle and humble voice. "Ever since we drove most of the damned elves out of here, I mean, from the area around Ard Carraigh, there's been nothing but peace and quiet. You can safely go for walks with your children."

He leaned his head close to the witcher's ear and added, narrowing his eyes:

"Because I'm terribly worried about the well-being of my children. I have such little ones"—he gestured with his hands like little ones—"toddlers to keep and feed. "

The witcher smiled mockingly.

"Why are you so scared, innkeeper?" he asked, looking at him. "What's making you shake in your pants so much? Tell me. And pour me some beer. "

Sweat broke out on the fat man's forehead.

"You're a familiar face, Raven," he said finally, pouring the golden drink with trembling hands. "Black hair, worn like an elf's, a sword girded like a bow. And those eyes... You can't be mistaken for anyone. Apparently, you sometimes fly into rage for no reason, slaughtering impartial and innocent people. Such stories circulate in cities... People hear such things every day. After all, history itself haunts this place in human form... So don't be surprised, sir, that I'm as terrified as a girl..."

The witcher merely snorted and, turning from the bar, moved with his mug toward the table furthest from the entrance. People buried their heads in their shoulders as he passed.

He sat comfortably on a bench, wiping the remains of some food with his sleeve. He observed.

The inn was exceptionally successful. There were relatively few customers. But the inn's reputation had no bearing on that; it had just passed noon.

The witcher observed. He saw one of the guests grab the breast of a rather pretty girl who had brought him and his companions a cask of mead. The girl became furious, arched her back strangely, and punched the rude man in the nose with all her might. He fell from the bench to the ground and cursed. The beaten man's companions roared with laughter, and the innkeeper pulled the still furious girl aside, where he nervously explained that she should have been above it and allowed herself to be groped without hindrance. The girl nervously stamped her foot, shouted back insolently, telling him to let himself be groped, like a smart one, and then hurried to the back. After a few moments, she returned.

Yes, the witcher liked this place.

He had already finished the contents of one mug and ordered another. The insulting girl had brought it to him. The warrior saw her watching him with curiosity. With a gentle movement, he grabbed her hand. The girl moaned with pleasure as a wave of the witcher's vibrating energy surged through her body.

She moaned so deliciously, the mutant, but still a man, was aroused. What a luscious ass she has, and her heaving breasts are so tempting.

He looked into the girl's eyes—he saw lust in them. He felt desire building within him, too. Women will ruin me someday, he thought. He wasn't bothered by the obvious fact that the girl had just taken a large dose of Fisstech.

The innkeeper suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Without bothering with unnecessary conventions, he asked unabashedly,

"Do you like my daughter, sir?"

Raven didn't know what to expect. He only nodded.

"Two florins, sir. You'll pay, and Viola won't skimp on the pleasures.

What a bastard!" the witcher fumed, reaching for the money at his belt. "What kind of bastards have these people become, trading in their own daughter's charms?"

"Upstairs room, first door on the left," the fat man said, pocketing the coins he'd been given. The innkeeper smiled again, sneering, and walked away toward the halfling who was making a fuss in the entrance, refusing to let him in because he was a "lousy race."

The witcher only saw the hobbit get a booted slap across the face from the bouncer, before turning his attention to the innkeeper's daughter.

The warrior suspected he didn't have much time. Someone would be arriving soon. He had almost stood up, eager to get to the aforementioned room when the girl placed her hands on his shoulders and roughly sat him down again.

She spread his legs with one knee and slowly began to kneel, still looking the mutant straight in the eye. She was skilled at unbuttoning his trousers. A few seconds, and the main point of the matter, for which the witcher had paid a handsome sum, came into view. Well, one must invest in oneself, he thought.

The girl lowered her gaze to the witcher's natural sword and smiled ambiguously.

The witcher felt her moist lips.

He sighed.

***

Everyone was watching them. The customers' mouths were parted, and saliva dripped down their chins.

The innkeeper smiled wickedly and scratched his genitals, which were aching in his tight trousers. Tonight, he thought, tonight I'll play with my daughter too and make her do things like that.

He licked his dry lips.

***

The girl stood up, pulled her skirt up to the right height, and sat down where the witcher should have sat. The mutant noticed she wasn't wearing panties.

How charmingly she moans.

It became noisy.

The witcher glanced over the shoulder of the panting girl into the hall. People were getting up and slowly approaching to get a better view of the situation, so different from the daily monotony of pouring themselves into anything and everything.

Meanwhile, the girl rose and fell, rose and fell. Her moans grew louder and louder, escalating into a spasmodic, broken cry. Raven could feel her excitement.

He unlaced her shirt and delighted his gaze with the sight of two beautiful breasts, each with a very pale nipple.

He closed his eyes. He focused on the right, rock-hard tip. The girl screamed, raking her nails across his neck. The crowd roared, the witcher purred, the girl moved her hips...

***

"Vesemir was right when he said you were a thorn in the witchers' asses."

The raven opened his eyes and, still with his mouth on the girl's breast, glared with his black orbs at the young newcomer.

The boy understood the look and pulled a medallion from under his shirt. A cat, the witcher's symbol. The raven sighed and carelessly pulled the girl off him. Surprisingly, she had no intention of getting off. When the witcher pushed her away, she stubbornly returned to her seat. Only a firmer tug allowed the girl to realize that the pleasure was truly over.

The newcomer pushed the bench across from the black-haired witcher and sat comfortably. He waited until the innkeeper's angry and disappointed daughter had laced up her shirt.

"Is that why you wanted to summon the witchers here, to watch you philander?" the young man began, watching the girl as she walked away. "What? Say something, Cerbin."

Cerbin, in the Elder Speech of the Raven, without rising from his chair, pulled up his trousers and buttoned them ostentatiously slowly. And he became angry.

"Let me give you one piece of advice, you mustacheless one," he said, also ostentatiously slowly. "Never, ever, ever dare talk to me like that again, you pissant. Otherwise, you'll say goodbye to that witcher head of yours sooner than you think." Did you get it?

The young man smiled uncertainly and nodded several times to show he'd gotten it. Meanwhile, Cerbin picked up the mug of beer the girl had brought him earlier and downed its contents in one gulp. Some of the drink spilled down his chin.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"Gorth.

" "Gorth..." Cerbin glared at him uncertainly. "And where is Vesemir?" The message was addressed to him.

"I was in Kaer Morhen myself when your letter arrived. Vesemir, along with Boldskin and Vortigern, set out to kill something near Eskelderg. And since we don't often receive letters in Settlement, I figured it was something important. I read it and came to the place you gave me.

" "Just in time, witcher," Cerbin nodded. He glanced at the host's daughter, who was returning to the hall. "Well, maybe a few minutes too early."

***

Someone was playing cards, a drunken woman was roaring, imitating the strains of some song. The air smelled of a foreign herb, and somewhere in the front, two dwarves were hitting each other with wooden mugs.

"I wrote Vesemir that we'd leave a message for him here, at this inn, if we had to leave," Gorth explained, gnawing on a chicken leg. "Well, now I'm waiting for an explanation. What's the matter?"

Cerbin sat back, staring into the barely smoldering oil lamp.

"It happened," he continued, "that for various reasons, people tried to kill me. They hired assassins. Always duds, as you can see. Other times, when I took a job, they forgot to describe exactly what was to be killed. Usually, an ordinary aeschnail turned out to be a kikimore, or strangely, instead of a wyvern, I encountered crossbowmen on the spot. Such is the life of a bastard. A side effect of what we do. But I'm dry today."

He took a sip of beer. Gorth watched him carefully, observing his behavior, getting to know him.

"This time it was more interesting," he continued, as a long belch echoed through the room. "Different." Five men, technically sound, a cold morning, I leave a Vizima brothel completely exhausted…

" "Which speaks volumes about their professionalism," Gorth interjected. "They knew when to strike.

" "It wasn't easy, they mangled my arm." Cerbin refused to be thrown off balance. "I still don't have full control over it. Never mind… There was a sorcerer there, on the battlefield. A young one, a puppy by the looks of it, though that doesn't mean anything, you know their abilities. He stayed on the sidelines, even when I was killing his cronies. He didn't do anything, didn't help them in any way. He teleported away before I got to him. Then I searched the bodies and found this." He pulled out an expensive yellow parchment with a broken dark red seal and handed it to Gorth.

Gorth unfolded the parchment, moistening his lips.

"I understand Raven has been captured," he began reading aloud. "Tall, with long, black hair that reached roughly to his forearms. A sword on his back." Eyes like black bullets set into eyeballs. Does he look like that? And is he still worth ten? Because I remind you, if you killed him, you can say goodbye to your families. If he's alive, you are to transport him to the Fox's Tail tavern in Hengfors, where you will tell the owner: "We have a son of a bitch." That will be the password. He will lead you to a room where another team will be waiting, who will take the witcher from you and pay you, dogs, the agreed-upon money.

"Someone has a good sense of humor," the young witcher said after finishing reading, rolling the parchment back into a roll. "And he didn't sign it.

" "I spent nearly two weeks with a sorcerer friend of mine while he tried to remove the protective magic from that humorous piece of paper. That parchment was secured solidly. Very solidly." He felt his left forearm. "Although that might be a good thing, because it was time to get the tendons fixed...

" "You went to Hengforts?"

"I went. I gave the innkeeper the password, and he led me to a small room. But there was no one there. Except that three witcher medallions hung from a beam near the ceiling. Two wolves and a griffin. And on the table was a parchment, identical to the one you're holding. Only now it was unsecured.

" "What was on it?

" "Rivia.

" "What: Rivia?

" "It said Rivia." Cerbin pulled out three medallions and stared at them in silence for a moment. "An obvious sign. Clearly someone wants to lure me to Rivia.

" "Clearly a trap," Gorth sighed after a moment of reflection. "Explain to me: who was that sorcerer who fled right after the fight? Why didn't he do anything to help his companions? Why did some fool have a magically protected message he couldn't have deciphered anyway? And why did he have it and not this sorcerer? A magically protected message? So what?" Someone wanted to add credibility to this pathetic imitation of a trap! Is that supposed to be a reason to round up the witchers and march them off to Rivia in droves? This is some kind of joke!

Cerbin instantly leaned over, grabbed the surprised Gorth by the jacket, and pulled him towards himself. Gorth swallowed.

"See that, son of a bitch?" he thrust the witcher symbols under the young man's nose. "At least three of your brothers have been murdered. Because you can't take the medallion off a living witcher's neck! And that means someone's hunting us, kid. Someone's finishing off witchers! This isn't killing martens, you amateur. This is serious. Besides, it doesn't matter if it's a trap or not. Someone knows it failed and tried to intrigue me. And they succeeded. "

He fell silent for a moment, straightened.

"You're of no use to me. You'll stay here and wait for Vesemir." You explain to him what's going on, and he'll decide if it's worth following me to Rivia.

" Gorth had a grim expression.

"There's no way to reach an understanding with you," he said. "There's no way to explain anything to you, because you're such a stubborn ass that it's not worth wasting my time.

" "Oh, is that it?

" "Oh, yes. So there's nothing to talk about, we'll just leave a message for Vesemir here and head for Rivia, because whatever happens, it really does sound very intriguing. And I've never been to Rivia.

" "I don't know yet if I want to take you with me," Cerbin finished his beer and stood up. "I'll pee and make a decision."

***

The witcher left the inn, walked around it a bit, and turned into a rather narrow alley, well known to the inn's patrons. All bodily needs were met here. Therefore, it didn't smell the most pleasant.

It was cold. Winter had barely let up, and the icy wind prevented him from enjoying the sun for too long. Despite everything, Kruk was thrilled by the imminent prospect of being back in the saddle and hitting the trail.

The witcher was peeing. Suddenly, the only exit from the alley was blocked by four large figures. Something small stood before them, reeking of vodka and stables from a distance. Rychert.

"Well, well, witcher," the drunkard stammered. "I knew you'd have to come here eventually. We've been waiting for you."

They began to approach. Each of the four heavily armed thugs had scarred faces. Even now, they bore the marks of recent upholstery, bottles smashed over their heads, and broken chairs. Their faces showed no emotion.

The witcher didn't move. He continued to pee as he peed.

"You have to treat me with respect, witcher," Rychert said, clutching an ancient cutlass. "You have to say goodbye to life in a different way. Take it, boys.

" The "boys" looked at each other. They frowned reluctantly.

"Uh, Rychert," one of them finally spoke, with the voice of a particularly idiotic man. "Let him finish his swill first. I don't want him to trust me."

Everyone waited tensely. No one spoke. They were completely focused on watching the wall, marked with thick urine.

The witcher stopped peeing.

The thugs immediately rushed forward, jostling and tripping over each other in the narrow alley. The first swung his flail at Raven's head, but the iron only clattered against the bricks of the building. The witcher headbutted the giant's temple with all his might, simultaneously buttoning his trousers. Before the man slumped to the ground, Cerbin already had his sword in hand. Another degenerate, flying at the witcher with a raised heavy sword, was hit under the arm. The thug stopped in surprise and dropped his sword. The third giant, barely spurting blood, sidestepped his companion and swung his pickaxe with a flourish. The witcher dodged easily. The pickaxe flew over his head. The thug spun on his heel and, according to the laws of physics, was unable to control the weight of the weapon in his hands.

The spike crunched into the head of the man, who was wading through blood under his arm. He fell like a log.

The murderer stared blankly at his companion's body. And the witcher took a swing.

Raven, occasionally, would brutally mutilate one of his opponents. He wanted legends to circulate about him. Legends of a witcher who knew no mercy, massacring his opponents. And he succeeded. Legends circulated. But these four thugs knew none of them.

The blade severed both of the bandit's legs just above the knees. It went through them as if through a reed, losing none of its momentum. The man fell on his back. He lifted his head slightly, looked at the remains of his lower limbs and the blood gushing from them.

"My fucking legs!!!" he howled, whether crying or laughing hysterically.

The last of the gang was the least determined to fight. But the most determined to flee. His face twisted with terror, he simply looked at Raven, then turned around and began to flee.

The witcher struck him in the back with the Aard Sign. The man fell to the ground, unable to get up from fear. He sobbed horribly. Cerbin approached him calmly. He knelt, grabbed him by the hair, lifted him to his feet, and leaned him against the wall.

"Mercy, sir..." whispered the tearful bandit.

The witcher smiled wickedly.

"No fucking mercy. "

With a quick movement, he slit his throat.

***

In the capital of the Kaedween kingdom, Ard Carraigh, in an alley near the Fat Norbert tavern, lay two corpses and two unconscious men, one of them bleeding from severed legs.

Old Rychert was not there. Rumor has it that a few days after the incident, he was found in a pile of garbage, drugged and drunk to death. Apparently, he had gone mad shortly before his death.

***

Cerbin entered the inn at a brisk pace, sword in hand. He was covered in blood from head to toe. Everyone present looked at him in horror.

Gorth, leaning against the bar, glanced at Raven. He pursed his lips in an uninteresting grimace and shook his head.

"You say you went to pee?" he asked rhetorically.

The black-haired man approached him.

"Let's get out of here. We're leaving for Rivia immediately.

" Gorth smiled nastily. The young witcher scratched behind his ear.

"Maybe you'll take a bath first?"

Cerbin thought for a moment.

"Right. Innkeeper, scrub this filth from my clothes. And prepare a tub of hot water. Just don't say you don't have any, or I'll get angry."

He pondered again for a moment.

"And bring your daughter there...

" ***

Three hours later, they left Ard Carraigh.

The law enforcers weren't pursuing them; no one wanted to hold them accountable for the massacre in the city. The witcher didn't know this, but there was a tidy sum on the heads of the men he'd killed. The mayor wasn't in any hurry to get rid of the heavy sum from the treasury.

The witchers didn't care much. The witchers were on their way.

To Rivia.