Page 6 - The Witcher Story
P. 6

‘I’ll pay.’ The outsider spoke quietly, as if unsure, and the whole nasty
                 affair began. A pockmarked beanpole of a man who, from the moment the
                 outsider had entered had not taken his gloomy eyes from him, got up and
                 approached the counter. Two of his companions rose behind him, no more
                 than two paces away.
                  ‘There’s no room to be had, you Rivian vagabond,’ rasped the pockmarked
                 man, standing right next to the outsider. ‘We don’t need people like you in
                 Wyzim. This is a decent town!’
                  The outsider took his tankard and moved away. He glanced at the innkeep-
                 er, who avoided his eyes. It did not even occur to him to defend the Rivian.
                 After all, who liked Rivians?
                  ‘All Rivians are thieves,’ the pock-marked man went on, his breath smell-
                 ing of beer, garlic and anger. ‘Do you hear me, you bastard?’
                  ‘He can’t hear you. His ears are full of shit,’ said one of the men with him,
                 and the second man cackled.
                  ‘Pay and leave!’ yelled the pocked man. Only now did the Rivian look at him.
                 ‘I’ll finish my beer.’
                  ‘We’ll give you a hand,’ the pockmarked man hissed. He knocked the tankard
                 from the stranger’s hand and simultaneously grabbing him by the shoulder,
                 dug his fingers into the leather strap which ran diagonally across the out-
                 sider’s chest. One of the men behind him raised a fist to strike. The outsider
                 curled up on the spot, throwing the pockmarked man off balance. The sword
                 hissed in its sheath and glistened briefly in the dim light. The place seethed.
                 There was a scream, and one of the few remaining customers tumbled to-
                 wards the exit. A chair fell with a crash and earthenware smacked hollowly
                 against the floor. The innkeeper, his lips trembling, looked at the horribly
                 slashed face of the pocked man, who, clinging with his fingers to the edge of
                 the counter, was slowly sinking from sight. The other two were lying on the
                 floor, one motionless, the other writhing and convulsing in a dark, spreading
                 puddle. A woman’s hysterical scream vibrated in the air, piercing the ears as
                 the innkeeper shuddered, caught his breath, and vomited.


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          The Witcher Story ENG.indd   5                               7/23/08   11:03:43 PM
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