The Fire of Malice || The Witcher

Chapter Two

A pounding headache greeted Geralt as he groggily opened his eyes. It took a moment for them to bring the world into focus. The resulting view was bleak. He was in some sort of dungeon, hewn from stone. An iron door offered the only break in the otherwise homogenous walls, a single torch blazing nearby. Geralt was chained to the opposite wall, arms strung up to either side over his head, feet tied down beneath him. He had been stripped of his armor and weapons, left only with his trousers and boots. The cool air danced across his bare chest and icy stone clawed at his back. But it was not they that sent a chill running down his spine. The dark-haired man approached, eyes overflowing with hatred, desperation. This man had nothing to lose. This man was dangerous.

"Geralt of Rivia, awake at last. I was afraid my man had sent you into a coma. Guess his aim was a little better than I thought." He gestured to the man next to him, one of two flanking him on either side.

How long had he been out? From the way his shoulders ached, it could have been a couple days.

"No matter. Now that you're awake, we can finally have our little chat." The man's voice was cordial and calm, completely contrary to the situation.

"But you haven't even introduced yourself," Geralt responded sarcastically.

A flash in the man's eyes. "How rude of me." A disingenuous smile split his face. "I'm Captain Roth. Well, former captain, that is. You see, I was the one sent to capture your Cirilla. I was there on Temple Isle." He was becoming more and more agitated, his words growing angry. "I had her in my grasp. And then she was gone, disappeared into thin air! It didn't matter how many people swore it was the truth, someone had to take the blame. A lifetime of service dismissed in an instant. I was thrown to the wolves, forced to claw my way up the ranks all over again."

"If you think I'm going to tell you where Ciri is, you're sadly mistaken," Geralt interrupted. He would rather die than endanger Ciri. Not to mention he himself didn't know where she was anyway.

The disturbing smile returned. "Oh, no. I'm no longer interested in Cirilla. I'm not going to risk going after her again. Not when my position is precarious as it is."

The statement left Geralt slightly taken aback. Then who was he after?

"There's only one person besides Cirilla whose capture could earn me back my captaincy. Only one of high enough import to merit my immediate promotion—Triss Merigold. I know she's in Velen and I know you've contacted her. You're going to tell me where she is."

Geralt answered only with a stony silence. His relationship with Triss may have been complicated, but his answer to Roth was simple. Geralt would never betray Triss.

Roth's voice grew steely, a hard glint crept into his eyes. "I'm giving you one chance, witcher. Do not push me."

"It doesn't matter how many chances you give me, you'll never find her," Geralt shot back smoothly.

A pause. "Very well."

Without any perceptible signal from Roth, the crossbowman stepped forward, brandishing a small knife. Practiced hands drew it slowly across Geralt's chest, cutting as deeply as he could without damaging anything vital. The blade's edge was dull and jagged, intentionally uncared for to cause more pain. Geralt could even see caked-on blood and grime, no doubt carved from previous victims, and left to intimidate new ones.

Geralt ground his teeth to stifle a cry. It was going to take more than a mere flesh wound to make him waver. Besides, Geralt admitted to himself, he had been through much worse. The scars ensconcing his body were evidence of that.

Seemingly driven on by Geralt's lack of response, the man continued slicing, crisscrossing Geralt's torso with his knife and leaving a latticework of ruined skin and muscle. By the sixth cut, a soft groan escaped unbidden from between Geralt's lips. Sweat poured from his brow, a testament to his efforts at keeping silent. In the end, it only added to his misery as the salty drops stung their way down his chest.