THE WITCHER AND THE WOLF
Somewhere in the Woods
The Night Wood swallowed the moonlight whole. Trees rose like blackened pillars, their ancient roots twisting above the damp soil. A damp fog coiled through the undergrowth, carrying the metallic scent of rot. Amadeus rode beneath the skeletal canopy, his black stallion Knight treading with careful precision. Stormbringer hung at his side, its hilt cool against his palm, while above, unseen creatures rustled and clicked.
Blood-drinking insects swarmed his face. He didn’t swat them away — movement in the Night Wood drew attention from worse things. He was a vagabond now, no home, no hearth, only a vow carved deep into his soul: to hunt the monsters that preyed upon the weak.
The trail bent, and figures emerged from the gloom. A band of travellers, limping and hollow-eyed, dragged carcasses of sheep, elk, and cows behind them. Cloaks hung in tatters, faces marked with fatigue.
One stepped forward — a hooded man whose shadowed face resembled something between man and gremlin.
“What brings you to the end of Midgard, o silver hair?”
Amadeus’s gaze was cold.
“No news. No errands. And none for you, young traveller.”
A pause. The forest seemed to lean closer.
“Does the great witcher not know the road ahead is cursed?”
His voice dropped to a dangerous growl.
“Choose your next words with care. Speak them sweet as honey, or you may end like your livestock.”
The man flinched but pressed on.
“North Midgard is ravaged by a prodigious werewolf. Every full moon — such as tonight — it turns from man to beast, tearing through our villages. Our cattle lie dead. We march to offer the gods a sacrifice.”
Amadeus studied him.
“And you have seen this creature?”
“I’ve seen the aftermath. The killings. Rumor says a healer walks these woods, tending the wounded… only to make them his next meal.”
“Easy,” Amadeus murmured, leaning down to pat the beast’s broad back.
The villager pointed to a fork in the road.
“That path leads out of the Night Wood. This one —” he gestured toward the gloom — “to our cursed village, where the wolf feasts.”
Amadeus turned Knight toward the cursed path.
“Then I will see what must be done.”
The Next Night
The Night Wood bled monsters. Before reaching the village, Amadeus was set upon by a fore-spider the size of a carriage. Its fangs pierced his leg, venom pulsing with each heartbeat. Snow vanished in the fight — whether dead or lost, he could not tell. Weak and half-conscious, he draped himself over Knight’s saddle, the forest spinning around him.
Through the haze came footsteps. A lantern bobbed through the dark, carried by a man in a spotless white coat. His eyes glowed faintly red; his face was all hooked angles and aquiline precision. Without a word, he took Knight’s reins and led them into a sudden clearing, as though the forest itself feared him.
Inside a thatched hut, the man introduced himself as Dr. Van Hel Sing. Strange elixirs burned down Amadeus’s throat, numbing pain, clearing his fever. But at night, the doctor vanished into the woods, returning at dawn reeking of blood and something far fouler.
When Amadeus’s strength returned, the doctor laid a feast before him — lamb, elk, chicken, venison — all fresh, too fresh.
“Where is Stormbringer?” Amadeus asked.
“In the armory. Best to keep dangerous things away from supper,” Van Hel Sing said with a smile that never reached his eyes.
“And Snow?”
“Snow?” The doctor’s brows arched. “I found you alone.”
Amadeus’s gaze dropped to the doctor’s boots — caked with mud, torn, wrong for a man who never left his house. A trail of drying soil led to the back door.
“I’ve heard the tales,” Amadeus said quietly. “A healer who roams the Night Wood, devouring cattle. Tell me, doctor — is that you?”
A stillness fell over the room.
“I am but a humble physician,” Van Hel Sing replied. “The King pays me a stipend every full moon—”
“The King of the North is dead.”
The doctor’s fork clattered to the floor.
“Did he grant you leave to hunt the Night Wood as payment for your services?”
“No, no… I tend to the weak, nothing more—”
Amadeus’s hand blurred. The dinner knife thudded into the table, inches from the doctor’s hand.
Van Hel Sing’s smile cracked. His breath grew heavy, his skin darkening, thickening, splitting into coarse hide. His arms swelled into trunk-like limbs, his hooved feet gouging the floorboards. The nose stretched forward into a lupine snout, eyes igniting like embers.
With a roar, the beast lunged, shattering the table. Amadeus rolled aside, cursing his lack of Stormbringer, and bolted for the door.
A howl tore through the night. From the trees, Snow emerged — white fur streaked with blood, fangs bared. He slammed into the werewolf, driving it back.
“Good, Snow — hold him!”
Amadeus found Stormbringer in the barn, sheathed beside Knight’s saddle. One swallow from a hidden vial surged fire into his veins. He lit the blade with a burning blue oil, the edge flaring like captured lightning.
The werewolf staggered under Snow’s assault. Amadeus charged, slicing deep — severing a limb in a spray of fire-lit blood. The beast howled, thrashing, claws digging into Snow’s muzzle.
The heart, Amadeus thought. End it.
“Arastus van numerous!” The words cracked the air, a ring of fire snapping into existence around the beast. Trapped, choking, it writhed, its shape twisting back toward human. When the flames faded, Van Hel Sing lay naked in the ash, pale as bone, slick with sweat.
Amadeus draped him with a parchment-thin cloak.
“I gave you your life back,” he said. “The curse is lifted. Go — before I change my mind.”
The doctor staggered inside, locking the door behind him.
By morning, word had spread. The villagers of the cursed road filled the streets, showering Amadeus with flowers and ale. Maidens clung to his arms; old songs of heroes were sung until the sun fell again.
Amadeus smiled faintly, though his eyes were far away.
A small price to pay, he thought, for their joy.
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to this franchise this is simply a work of fan fiction.
.jpeg)
Comments
Post a Comment