Kaer Morhen was lively. Winter's arrival brought with it the witchers' return. They came slowly at first, then more quickly, arriving in two's and threes. To the common folk they were cruel and unfeeling. They had to be. Only amongst their own kind could they speak freely.
The dining table was huge. Long enough to seat a hundred men. Roasted pheasant and potatoes overflowed from silver platters. The smell was incredible.
The witchers drank and ate. They grew more boisterous as the shadows lengthened. Their constitutions were highly resistant to poison. Had they not been downing wine by the jugful, they might've been able to metabolise it before the alcohol went to their heads.
I and the other adepts were in charge of keeping their glasses full and the table stocked. The steam rising from the huge bowl of stew in my hands tickled my nose. The mutations had significantly enhanced my olphactory system. I could smell every vegetable and spice that had gone into the stew. Later, when the witchers had retreated to their rooms, I would taste it.
Four years had passed since the trial of the grasses. After the injection of mutagenic elixirs, provided that we walked out alive, the diet of an adept was changed. Meat was added. Lots of it. The forests around Kaer Morhen were full of game. Deer became excellent target practice for our arrrows. Gradually killing became normal. My hands no longer shook when I readied my bow.
The grueling training never ceased. The mutations to our bodies allowed us to train far longer and far harder. New activities were added. Our heightened reflexes were pushed to their limits. The witchers would stand and fire volleys of blunt arrows at us. We either deflected them or suffered the pain.
Training shaped our bodies. There wasn't an ounce of fat on our bones. There couldn't be. Agility was a witcher's best friend. Most monsters stood taller and broader than any man. Their huge bodies empowered them to deal devestating blows. A glancing blow from a rock troll could crack a peasant's skull in half. A witcher's skull would break just the same.
The school of the wolf taught its adepts to be fast. To read their opponents moves and lurk in their blind spots. Rock trolls were huge, their arms were as thick as a barrel. Their size made their movements slow and cumbersome. A single blow from them would shatter a witcher's chest. But their strength meant nothing if they couldn't land a blow.
I glanced over to the other adepts. They stood underneath burning torches, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames. At their feet rested amphoras of wine. When a witcher's cup ran low they stepped forwards and poured until it dribbled from the brim.
Any of us could kill a dozen men. We moved swifter than a human ever could. Our swords would sever their arteries before they could blink. Monster hunters in the making, reduced to chefs and waiters. I longed for the day when I could sit on those tables. Then it would be my turn to be waited on hand and foot.
"More wine!" Eskel roared. Makeup was smeared on his cheeks. The woman in his lap giggled and tussled his hair.
Bevald stepped forwards. I could see him grinding his teeth. He raised the amphora aloft. Crimson liquid spilled outwards and sloshed in Eskel's cup. Droplets scattered onto the woman's skirt and she squealed in horror.
"I'll buy you a hundred more!" Eskel said proudly. His face was flush from the wine. He reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a handful of orens. His cup shook as he brought them down heavily on the table.
The woman's annoyance vanished immediately. She swiftly leaned forwards and snatched up the money. It then dissapeared into her bosom.
The revellery of the evening continued. At last, several hours later, the first of the witchers stood up and stumbled up the stairs to his room. They drank heavily, almost all of them. Perhaps only in drunkeness could they truly release the fear and frustration in their hearts. Spurred on by his example the other witchers soon followed.
Geralt was among the last to leave. He wasn't loud like most. Most of the time he sat quietly, eating and drinking. Occasionally he would put down his pheasant leg and recount a story from his journies. They almost always involved a beautiful and enchanting sorcereress named Yennefer. His love for her was apparent to everyone but him. Even in stories of places she might not even know existed, he somehow found reason to mention her name.
The other adepts and I began to clear the table. Bevald, the oldest, walked by my side as we balanced empty bowls and half-full cups. He was my closest friend amongst the adepts. With time and maturity the others had changed their attitudes towards me. Life as a witcher was mostly spent alone, wandering the continent seeking out employment. I was glad to have more companions to spend time with.
"I saw you staring. Just like me. You want to be one of them don't you?" He said with a smile. His grin matched his amber cat-like eyes.
"Not at all. I've always been passionate about stew." I replied.
He threw his head back and laughed. He was a good person. Kind and resilient. I wished more than anything that he would survive the coming trials.
The dishes were numerous. Fortunately there were five of us for the task. After an hour of scrubbing we were finished.
"Night Jack!" Bevald called out. The others did the same.
"Good night." I replied with a smile. The four of them headed back to our quarters. Fires were burning throughout the castle. The ever stingy Vessemir deemed the witcher's return a worthy enough occasion to properly heat Kaer Morhen. The warmth was tempting.
The empty training grounds provided no shelter from the wind. Snow fell and settled on my hair. A sudden forceful gust saved me the trouble of shaking it off. The cold had little effect on me. Frostbite wasn't a concern. Even if an avalanche fell on me I would still be able to claw my way out. It certainly wouldn't be pleasant and it might take several days. But it wouldn't be fatal.
'I spend a lot of time thinking about nearly dying.' I chuckled at my own strangeness.
The sword's weight was familair in my hand. The blade's edge was sharp enough to cut bone. We had long since graduated from wooden swords.
My knees bent. I tucked my elbows close to my body. Then I rotated my torso and raised my arm aloft. The blade cut through the air. The motion was embedded in my muscle memory. I had practiced this simple swing tens of thousands of times.
'Again.' The sword moved faster than my brain could form the thought.
Practice made perfect. The saying held tremendous truth. Steam floated up from my head and shoulders. The heat melted the snow as it fell on me.
In the sword I found peace. The moment when I swung with everything I had, it was perfect. There was only the arc of the blade and the whistle of the wind. My body didn't know fatigue. I pressed forwards, imagining a drowner charging towards me. I thrust at it's chest, breaking it's charge and sending it stumbling backwards. It was off balance. I surged forwards. The blade in my hand cut down from above my shoulder. It's edge sank deep into the drowners neck. Foul smelling black blood spurted into the air and splashed onto my face.
Vessemir had taught us to practice fighting imaginary foes. A competent witcher was always three steps ahead of his opponent. Monsters were fierce and powerful, but their bestial intelligence made their moves easy to predict and counter.
The moon was high in the sky. It watched on, shedding gentle light even after the torches burned to their ends. The low light was sufficient. I and the other adepts shared the same amber eyes.
My training pressed on. Proficiency in multiple weapons was a requirement I had set for myself. There were many monsters that could be felled with a well-aimed arrow. The string of my bow trembled. The sound of the arrow striking it's mark brought me great satisfaction.
It was truly joyful to be free of the typical fatigue that accompanied physical exertion. The bow would break under the strain before I did.
Arrow after arrow thudded into the target. Witches were born archers. It stunned me that carrying bows wasn't more common. Our eyes could see a fly from a hundred paces away. Changes in airflow that would be invisible to an ordinary person were crystal clear in my ears. The elves were famed for their archery. I wondered whether one among them would be willing to compete with me. It seemed feasible.
"I've heard a lot about you. They call you the stubborn one. They say you get back up from blows that would stun a fully grown witcher. Judging by your skills and stamina they weren't exaggerating." The voice cut through the quiet.
The arrow's fletchings were millimetres from my face. I stared in my foes direction. I hadn't heard his approach.
The man stepped out from the shadows with his hands raised. The arrow aimed at his face didn't bother him, his expression was completely relaxed.
"Woah, woah, woah. Don't shoot little ol' Radkin, I wouldn't hurt a fly you know!" He said unhurriedly.
He could catch the arrow in midflight. Bows were useless in fights between witchers.
I lowered my bow. The faint moonlight was enough for me to see his face. I recognised him from the dinner table. A witcher who hadn't been back to Kaer morhen for several winters.
"You're good kid, very good." He said with a smile. He walked closer, the tension between us evaporating. His tone was jovial, he was confident in his ablties.
I was not too proud to be blind to the truth. This was a fully grown experienced witcher. I was a trainee, still wet behind the ears. He had faced monsters I had only seen in textbooks. I didn't stand a chance against him in battle. Prolonged warfare was my only chance. I couldn't engage him in close combat for long, his superior strength would pierce a hole in my defence in a matter of minutes. He was a head taller than me. Witches were frighteningly nimble, my smaller stature would be of no advantage.
"Oh Vessemir must like you. I can see it in your eyes, analysing just like he does. Thinking how to kill me when I'm talking, can't you see you're breaking my heart!" He joked.
"A rabbit wouldn't be any good if it wasn't scared of the hunter." I replied with a small smile.
Radkin blinked several times. Then he burst into laughter. He threw his arm over my shoulder as if we were old friends, "Vessemir was right about you. He said that I'd like you."
The warmth of the fortress dispelled the chill in my body. Radkin lead me back to the dining hall while chatting casually.
"You know we don't usually tell adepts who their mentor is gonna be until after the trial of the mountain."
He turned and looked at me with a grin, "But you're a little special aren't ya? Hard to kill. You could pass those trials with your eyes closed. Thought I'd introduce myself, the name's Radkin.
I like swords, women and coin. I'm a simple man. Your turn!"
Radkin smelled like sword oil and wine. His hair was short and untamed. I wasn't used to being in such close proximity to someone outside of sparring, but I answered nonetheless, "I'm Jack. I like swords, bows and coin. Women too, but I'll wait a few years for that."
Radkin laughed and tussled my hair, "Oh we are going to get along just fine kid."
The hair tussling felt like an old brother teasing a sibling. I couldn't stop the smile that broke across my lips. Radkin's company was fiery and upbeat, it was a welcome change from Geralt's stoicism.
The thought of mentoring under him was hard to dislike.