Chapter 13: THE MONSTER IN THE WOODS
The scream came from the direction of the creek.
I was halfway across the temple courtyard, pack on my shoulder, lute case in hand, ready to slip away before Mother Nenneke's return complicated things. The scream changed everything.
A farmer burst through the side gate, blood on his shirt, eyes wild with terror. "Monsters! In the water—they took Borys—there's more coming—"
Sister Agata caught him before he fell. "How many? What kind?"
"Three, maybe four. Gray skin. Long claws. They came out of the reeds and—" He broke into sobs.
Drowners.
I knew them from the show, from the games, from every piece of Witcher lore I'd absorbed in my old life. Aquatic necrophages that hunted in packs, dragging victims underwater to drown and devour. Fast, vicious, but not particularly intelligent.
The sisters were already organizing. Women ushered children inside. Someone ran for the temple bells. But outside those walls, farmers were still working the fields near the creek.
The power document said ghouls and drowners have moderate resistance. Not immunity.
My feet made the decision before my brain caught up. I was running toward the creek, lute case banging against my hip as I fought with the clasp.
"Bard! Come back!"
I didn't turn.
The fields stretched between temple and water—maybe two hundred yards of open ground. I could hear more screaming now, multiple voices. The creek itself was lined with willows and reeds, perfect cover for creatures that hunted from the shallows.
I reached the treeline and stopped.
Three drowners surrounded a farmer who'd backed against a willow trunk. He was bleeding from claw marks across his chest, holding a sickle in shaking hands. The creatures circled him with the patient malice of predators who knew their prey was trapped.
They were worse in person than any show had depicted. Gray-green skin stretched over too-sharp bones. Black eyes that reflected nothing. Mouths full of needle teeth designed for gripping flesh underwater.
Terror Ballad. It's designed for this.
I pulled my lute free and struck a chord.
The drowners turned. All three of them, heads swiveling toward the sound with the eerie synchronization of pack hunters identifying new prey. I met those dead black eyes and felt my stomach lurch.
Don't freeze. Don't freeze. You survived bandits. You can survive this.
I started playing.
The Terror Ballad was something I'd practiced in private, never tested on anything that could actually hurt me. The melody was minor-key, discordant, built to trigger primal fear responses. I poured every ounce of Stage 2 power into the music, reaching toward those alien minds.
Resistance hit me like a wall. Not the complete immunity of a hostile human—something different. Simpler. The drowners didn't think the way people did. Their minds were instinct and hunger, hard to grip, slippery.
But fear was primal too.
The first drowner hissed and retreated a step. The second's claws twitched, confusion breaking its predatory focus. I pushed harder, driving fear into the music like a blade into meat.
Two of them fled. They splashed into the creek and vanished beneath dark water, leaving only ripples behind.
The third didn't run.
It lunged.
The Evasion Instinct seized my body, throwing me sideways. Claws raked through empty air where my chest had been. I stumbled, almost lost my grip on the lute, kept playing through pure desperation.
The drowner landed and spun, faster than anything that dead-looking had any right to be. It came at me again.
I dodged. Again. And again.
I can't keep this up. The stamina drain—
Torchlight bloomed at the edge of the field. Farmers with pitchforks and brands, drawn by the screaming. The drowner's head snapped toward the new threat—half a dozen humans with fire, more intimidating than one bard with an instrument.
It fled. A gray blur that dove into the reeds and disappeared.
I stopped playing. My legs gave out immediately—the same collapse I remembered from the training yard in Vizima, all those months ago. The ground was cold and damp. I didn't care.
"The creature ran—"
"Did you see that? The music—"
"Get Borys! Someone help Borys!"
Hands pulled me upright. The injured farmer—Borys, apparently—was being carried toward the temple, still alive despite his wounds. The man I'd found against the tree was being supported by two others, shock blanking his features.
Sister Agata pushed through the crowd. "What did you do?"
"Remembered a song." The lie came easier than I expected. "From my travels. A Witcher—a real Witcher—told me once that certain melodies unnerve water creatures. Something about the frequencies. I didn't know if it would work."
Her eyes searched my face. I couldn't tell if she believed me.
"It worked well enough." She looked toward the creek, toward the dark water where the drowners had vanished. "They may return after nightfall. We'll post guards."
The farmers helped me back to the temple. Someone pressed a cup of hot broth into my hands. I drank without tasting it, focused entirely on not shaking apart.
That was too close. Way too close.
The drowner's claws had missed me by inches. If my Evasion hadn't triggered, if my timing had been off by a fraction—
I thought about the first time the instinct had awakened, on that forest road near Vizima. Bandits with blades, lethal intent, my body moving without permission. That fear had been different. Human threats, comprehensible.
Monsters were another category entirely.
But I'd survived. The Terror Ballad had worked—imperfectly, with enormous effort, but it had worked. Stage 2 Bardic Resonance could affect lesser monsters.
That's useful information. Terrifying, but useful.
The broth warmed my stomach. Slowly, my hands stopped trembling.
Borys lived. Sister Agata's healing combined with my own surreptitious Healing Melody—sung quietly in the sickroom when no one was watching—brought him back from the edge. By midnight, his fever had broken. By dawn, he was asking for water and food.
I left before the questions could sharpen into suspicion.
The temple gate was open when I slipped through, pack on my back, lute secure in its case. The road east stretched before me, gray in the early light. Behind me, the Temple of Melitele sat solid and peaceful, as if nothing had happened.
Sixteen months until Posada. Give or take.
I adjusted my pack and started walking.
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