They stood at the bottom of the shaft.
Water moved at their feet, shallow and steady, carrying rot and old waste without hurry.
A guard struck flint.
The torch caught and steadied. Light spread across the stone and failed to carry, breaking apart where damp and shadow took it.
"Can't see," one of them said.
Another raised his torch beside it. The two lights met and still failed to reach the far wall.
The witcher didn't answer.
The sewer ran out ahead of them in a low tunnel. Stone sagged where time had worked it loose. Some sections were set clean and careful. Others were rough and mismatched, blocks forced in where older work had failed, gaps left dark and wet.
Water followed the center of the floor in a shallow channel worn smooth by years of flow.
Moisture seeped through cracks in the stone and dripped where it collected, tapping into the channel below. The drip carried down the tunnel.
They moved on.
A boot caught.
One of the guards lurched forward, arms flailing, and nearly went down. His torch dipped, light swinging low across the water.
Something pale lay half in the channel where his foot had struck. An arm. Stripped to bone in places, the hand turned palm up in the flow.
"Fuckin' hell," he said.
He didn't move right away. His breathing went quick and shallow, loud in the tunnel. The torch shook in his hand, light jumping across stone and water.
Then he forced himself forward, boots splashing as he stepped around it, eyes fixed ahead and nowhere else.
The witcher kept moving.
Behind him, a guard muttered under his breath.
The sewer closed around them as they went deeper.
—
The channel ahead narrowed where the stone sagged. Water slid slower there, darkened by debris that had collected and stayed.
Water shifted ahead.
Something dragged through it, pushing against the flow.
The witcher stopped.
Silver came free.
A guard glanced toward him. "What is it?"
The witcher listened.
A splash came from ahead.
"Drowners."
The water broke.
Five shapes rushed out of the channel straight toward them.
The first lunged low and fast. The witcher slipped aside and cut as it passed him. The blade bit deep. The drowner collapsed where it fell.
The second was already on him.
Claws flashed. He took a short step back as they raked the space where his chest had been. In the same motion, he drove the blade straight in. The point sank deep and stopped hard. He tore it free and let the body fall.
The other three did not slow.
They veered past him in the narrow space, slipping by while he was still recovering the blade and driving straight into the guards ahead.
Steel scraped too late.
One guard fumbled his draw and swore as claws hit him mid-step. He went down hard, legs tangling as the drowner raked across his thigh and tore through cloth and leather. He shouted once and clutched at the wound, breath breaking as he tried to pull his leg back under him.
The other two guards got their blades free in time.
One met the rush head-on and hacked down. The drowner staggered but stayed on its feet and drove in close, snapping and clawing, forcing the guard back step by step.
The last drowner drove into the third guard and jammed him tight against the wall, claws flashing, leaving him no room to swing cleanly.
The witcher was already moving.
He closed the distance and cut once, clean and heavy. The drowner's head came off and the body dropped beside the wounded guard.
The guard at the wall was still pinned.
The witcher stepped in and cut again, short and hard. The second drowner's head came free and the body collapsed where it stood.
Steel rang behind him.
The guard who had hacked the third drowner was still fighting it in close. He struck again, the blade biting shallow, scraping bone. The creature clawed back, forcing him to brace hard to stay upright.
The witcher stepped in and ended it with a single cut to the neck. The body collapsed into the shallow water.
Water settled again.
For a moment, no one spoke.
One of the guards looked at the bodies, then at the witcher. He had heard the stories. Seeing it done left him silent.
The wounded guard rolled onto his side, jaw clenched hard enough to shake. One hand stayed locked on his thigh. Blood ran through his fingers and thinned as it spread. He tried to pull his leg under him and failed, breath tearing out of him as he sagged back.
The others backed away from the bodies.
One crouched by the wound and pressed cloth down hard.
"We can't keep going," he said.
After a moment, he added, "We'll head back."
They hauled the wounded man up between them and turned back the way they had come, their boots splashing as they pulled back, torches shaking despite their grip.
The witcher watched them go.
Water ahead lay still.
He wiped the blade once and turned forward alone.
Blood marked the channel behind him.
—
Shallow water moved around his boots as he walked. The channel carried straight ahead, the same stone underfoot, the same slow wash at his ankles.
A sound reached him from farther down the sewer.
It was faint and irregular, something brushing water and stone where it moved. He kept his pace. After a few steps the sound came again, clearer this time, still distant. Whatever made it was not rushing.
He continued forward.
The sound returned once more, then faded. When it did not come again, he did not stop. The channel stayed quiet except for the slow movement of water at his feet.
He had gone several paces farther when the smell reached him.
It was thick and stale, rot layered over old blood. It clung close and did not drift.
He slowed and drew the silver sword.
The water around his boots settled as he stopped. He lifted his head and tracked the curve of the ceiling, blade held ready.
The impact came immediately.
The weight dropped onto him from above and drove him down and back. Claws tore at leather and steel as wings battered against his shoulders and chest. The blow knocked the sword from his grip. It clattered away into the water and was gone from reach.
The thing stayed on him.
It pinned him hard, shrieking into his face as it snapped and clawed, its weight forcing him down into the shallow water. Claws dug for purchase. Teeth scraped close enough to matter.
He twisted under it and forced his left hand up between them.
Aard.
The force burst outward at close range. The creature was torn off him and thrown back down the channel, striking hard and rolling to a stop against the far wall.
The witcher rolled to his side and pushed himself up, breath sharp in his chest. Water ran off his armor as he got his feet under him.
He moved immediately.
He stepped through the channel, crouched, and reached into the water. His fingers closed around the hilt. He pulled the blade free and turned back in one motion, bringing it up as he set his stance.
The creature had pulled itself upright.
Long-limbed. Hairless. Skin stretched tight over muscle. Wings folded and spread again as it hissed, mouth opening too wide as it gathered itself to rush him.
A fleder.
He reached into his belt with his free hand, uncorked a vial with his thumb, and drank.
The liquid burned its way down, sharp and bitter. Heat followed, spreading fast through his chest and limbs as his pulse answered.
The fleder shrieked and launched itself at him.
He met it head-on.