The Fire of Malice || The Witcher

Chapter Eight

Geralt wasted no time with a momentous battle-cry to herald his victory, no witty retort to shove Roth further into the grave. He couldn't have spoken even if he wanted to. He had only moments.

The sword had pierced his lung.

Geralt dove for Roth, searching frantically for keys, fingers moving faster than his flustered brain could command. Breaths came in ever shallower gasps. There wasn't enough air.

Cold metal met Geralt's hand in the shape of a simple key. He grasped it like a piece of flotsam in open water and staggered his way over to the carriage, clutching the hole in his chest in a useless attempt to hold himself together.

Too slow. It was all happening too slowly. At a snail's pace, the wagon drew near, Geralt's feet seemingly striving against his own efforts. And then, try as he might, Geralt couldn't draw breath. He only had whatever air was left in his system.

Geralt fumbled at the lock, finally fitting the key inside and turning it. The door swung wide.

There, bound and gagged, dimeritium shackles chained to the middle of the floor, was Triss. She stared wide-eyed at Geralt, but unsurprised at his appearance.

Geralt made to climb in, to unlock Triss, but his legs crumpled beneath him. He slapped the key onto the floor of the carriage, a bloody handprint outlining it on the wooden boards. As his world faded, he slid down the wagon and collapsed behind it.

The stars winked at him from high above, then blurred together with the trees and the wind and the sky until his sight failed him and he knew no more.

~~~

Triss had figured out what had happened long before Geralt's face appeared at the door. She knew Geralt had come to rescue her, and marveled at the fact that he could even attempt the feat. More of Shani's handiwork was no doubt to thank for that. But fear strangled her heart when she saw him fall. Saw the blood encasing his body, dribbling from his lips. She had to get to him. Now.

Using her foot, Triss scooted the key behind her back where she grabbed it and undid her shackles. She didn't bother rubbing her aching wrists. Didn't bother stretching her cramped muscles or favoring her beaten and bruised ribs. She bounded for Geralt, dropping to his side with spells already forming on her lips. But something was blocking her. She couldn't summon her magic.

Roth!

His talisman! Triss quickly located Roth, stooping over his body and ripping the stone from around his neck. It went soaring into the woods.

Magic was dancing on Triss' fingers by the time she scampered back to Geralt. It wasn't good. Blood was bubbling from his lips, his chest heaving in a futile attempt to breathe. She could see from the placement of a stab wound that his lung had been punctured. Now was not the time for caution. Geralt would die if she didn't heal him now. Magic was his only hope.

But it wouldn't be easy.

Foremost, she had to reverse the damage. The lung had to be brought back to working order. Nerves, blood vessels, muscles, tissue all in their rightful place. With a flourish of her hands, the spell took hold, stitching together torn flesh.

It wasn't working quickly enough.

Geralt's eyes were rolling into his head, his struggles lessening with each passing second. More and more blood gurgled forth from his mouth and chest. Not to mention from the dozen lesser wounds that covered his body. Triss willed her focus solely to her spell, blotting out her surroundings, Geralt's condition. One distraction and it would be over.