The marsh was alive with the sounds of unseen things. The faint hum of insects and the occasional splash of water filled the air, but underneath it all was something more sinister—a low, guttural clicking that Eldric couldn't quite place. The swamp's mist hung thick, cloaking everything in a damp veil. The stagnant water reeked of decay, and every step squelched noisily against the muddy ground.
Thorolf halted at the edge of a murky pool, his sharp gaze scanning the area. "This is it," he said, his voice low but steady. "Drowners. Nasty, opportunistic bastards. A Witcher's bread and butter. But don't let that fool you—they'll gut you just as quick if you're careless."
Eldric adjusted the strap of his sword, glancing nervously at the water. He'd read about drowners in the journals Thorolf made him study during their journey: human-shaped creatures with pale, bloated skin, often seen near bodies of water where they dragged victims to a watery grave. The books described them as "low-level threats"—words that didn't comfort him now.
"And I'm supposed to kill them?" Eldric asked, his voice betraying a hint of uncertainty.
Thorolf smirked, folding his arms. "All of them."
Eldric's stomach churned. He tried to steady his breathing, to focus on what he'd learned so far. "You're not going to help?"
"No," Thorolf said firmly. "I'll be watching. But this is your fight. Observe their movements. Use the environment. Set traps. A Witcher's strength isn't just in their blade; it's up here." He tapped his temple.
Thorolf's expression softened slightly. "You're ready, Eldric. Now prove it."
Eldric crouched behind a tangle of roots, peering out at the water. He'd spotted the first drowner minutes ago: a hunched figure slinking along the edge of the pool, its skin glistening with swamp muck. It moved with an unsettling combination of twitchiness and fluidity, its head jerking as it sniffed the air. Two more figures soon emerged, their pale, featureless faces illuminated briefly as they passed through a patch of moonlight.
He tightened his grip on his sword. Thorolf's words echoed in his mind: "Watch them. Learn their patterns." Eldric noted how the drowners moved together, their actions almost coordinated. One stayed near the water's edge while the others fanned out, scanning the surrounding area. He realized they were hunting.
Carefully, he withdrew a small pouch from his belt. Inside was a scattering of iron shavings and crushed celandine, ingredients Thorolf had insisted he carry. He sprinkled the mixture into the mud, forming a rough circle, and placed a small chunk of meat at its center.
He stepped back, retreating to a higher vantage point behind a cluster of rocks. Now, he waited.
The first drowner took the bait, its hunched form shambling toward the meat with a guttural snarl. As it crossed into the circle, the mixture flared faintly, the iron reacting with the creature's damp skin. The drowner recoiled, its screech cutting through the swamp as it staggered backward. Eldric seized the moment.
He lunged from his hiding spot, his sword arcing through the air. The blade connected with the drowner's neck, the force of the strike nearly cleaving its head clean off. It crumpled to the ground in a heap, twitching once before falling still.
The other two drowners reacted immediately, their screeches filling the night as they turned toward Eldric. His heart pounded as they charged, their movements frenzied but deliberate. He backed away, leading them toward another trap he'd hastily set—a pit concealed with reeds and lined with sharpened stakes.
One of the creatures fell in, its guttural scream cut short as it was impaled. But as Eldric turned to face the last drowner, the trap failed. The stakes had shifted in the mud, bending under the weight of the creature as it scrambled free with an angry snarl.
Panic surged through Eldric as the drowner leapt at him. He stumbled, barely raising his sword in time to deflect its claws. The force of the blow sent him reeling, his back slamming against a tree. Pain flared through his ribs, but he steadied himself, gripping his sword tightly. The drowner lunged again, and this time, he sidestepped and drove his blade into its chest, twisting hard before pulling it free. The creature collapsed, the swamp falling silent save for Eldric's ragged breathing.
Thorolf approached slowly, his expression unreadable. Eldric stood over the fallen creatures, his hands trembling from exertion. "Well?" he asked, trying to mask the quaver in his voice.
Thorolf nodded, a hint of approval in his gaze. "Not bad. You're rough around the edges, but you've got instincts. You planned ahead, adapted. That's what keeps a Witcher alive."
Eldric exhaled, the tension in his chest easing slightly. But before he could relax fully, the swamp stirred again. The water nearby churned violently, and a low, resonant growl rumbled through the air. Eldric frowned, his senses prickling. He realized, belatedly, that the water had been too still earlier—no frogs croaking, no fish darting away.
Thorolf's hand went to his sword. "Don't let your guard down."
Eldric turned slowly, his blood running cold as a massive shape emerged from the water. The drowner was grotesque, its slimy, hulking form towering over him. Its gaping maw dripped with fetid water, and its eyes glowed faintly with an unnatural light. It roared, the sound shaking the very ground beneath them.
Thorolf stepped back, his gaze sharp and assessing. "A Mucknixer. Lesson's not over yet," he said grimly.
Eldric raised his sword, his muscles screaming in protest. The trial wasn't finished—not yet.