The Last Contract

The air in the valley hung thick and still, smelling of pine needles, wet earth, and something else – something sickly sweet and cloying that settled at the back of Geralt’s throat. Flies, fat and sluggish, buzzed around his horse’s ears. He nudged Roach forward, the rhythmic creak of worn leather and the clink of metal against metal the only sounds in the deepening quiet. The sun, a pale smear behind a gauze of clouds, cast long, indistinct shadows through the skeletal trees. The path, once a well-worn track, was overgrown, brambles snatching at Roach’s legs. Geralt squinted ahead. The village of Lindenvale should have been visible by now, a cluster of thatched roofs and smoke plumes. Instead, only the dense, dark forest stretched on, broken by the occasional, stark glimpse of grey wood that might be a fence post or a decaying cross. A shiver, not of cold, ran down his spine. The air felt heavy, as if the very sound had been sucked out of it, leaving only a vacuum of apprehension. When he finally broke through the tree line, Lindenvale lay before him, not as a vibrant settlement, but as a tableau of abandonment. Houses stood with sagging roofs, their windows like vacant eyes staring out at a world that had moved on. A broken wagon lay overturned near what must have been the village well, its wooden wheels fractured, spilling its rotted cargo onto the muddy ground. There was no smoke from chimneys, no children’s shouts, no barking dogs. Just the persistent, sickening scent of decay, now laced with something sharper, more metallic – the smell of unwashed bodies and fear. Geralt dismounted, his joints protesting with a familiar ache. He was no longer the swift, agile wolf of his youth, though the muscle memory remained, a phantom limb of speed. His armor, patched and scuffed, felt heavier these days, each rivet a reminder of countless battles won and lost. He loosened the straps of his swords, the familiar weight a comfort. Roach snorted nervously, pawing at the ground. "Easy, girl," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. He moved through the village square, his boots sinking slightly into the churned mud. A scarecrow, its burlap head askew, hung limply from a post, its straw guts spilling onto the ground. A child's wooden doll, missing an arm, lay facedown beside it, forgotten. The silence was profound, broken only by the buzzing of flies and the distant, mournful cry of a crow. This wasn't merely abandonment; it was desolation. A movement caught his eye – a flicker behind the warped shutters of the largest house, a two-story affair with a sturdy oak door. He approached cautiously, his hand on the hilt of his silver sword. "Anyone here?" His voice echoed, thin and reedy in the oppressive quiet. A long pause. Then, a creak as the door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of darkness and a single, rheumy eye. "Witcher?" a voice rasped, hoarse with disuse and perhaps fear. "You came." The door opened further, revealing an old man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, his skin sallow and pitted. His clothes were threadbare, stained, and he leaned heavily on a gnarled walking stick. He looked like a man who had been slowly consumed by grief and illness. "Geralt of Rivia," the witcher confirmed, his gaze sweeping past the man into the dim interior of the house. He caught the faint, unmistakable aroma of fever, of unwashed linen, of death. "Elder Bronislaw," the old man introduced himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "We… we sent the boy. Did he reach you?" Geralt nodded, remembering the half-starved courier who’d found him a week ago, clutching a pouch of coin and a desperate plea. The boy had smelled of the same sickly sweet decay. Geralt had given him some elixirs, but doubted they’d done much good. "He did. He spoke of a plague. And… a monster." Bronislaw sagged against the doorframe, his shoulders shaking. "Aye. The plague… it took 'em all. My wife. My sons. My grandchildren. Day by day, they coughed and wasted away. But then…" He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Then she came." "She?" Geralt prompted, his voice flat. "The banshee. Or a ghoul, I don't know what to call it. It comes at night. A woman, tall and pale, wailing. And she… she takes them. The bodies. From their beds. From the graves. We tried to bury them, but she digs them up, rends them apart." His voice broke. "It's a desecration. Even in death, they find no peace." Geralt’s brows furrowed. A banshee was a spirit of lamentation, not typically a scavenger of corpses. Ghouls, yes, but Bronislaw described a single, distinct entity. "Show me the damage." Bronislaw led him through the deserted streets, his steps faltering. He pointed to a house with a gaping hole in its side, as if something had ripped through the wall rather than used the door. "My neighbor, Elara. She died two days ago. We left her in her bed, too weak to move her. The next morning… just a torn sheet and blood." Further on, at the edge of the village, was a small, hastily dug graveyard. Several mounds of earth were disturbed, dirt scattered violently. One wooden marker lay snapped in half. Geralt knelt, examining the soil. Not claw marks, not exactly. More like the impression of bare hands, digging furiously, frantically. The ground was soft, wet, making clear prints difficult. He sniffed. The familiar stench of death was strong here, but underlying it was a fainter scent, metallic and musky, vaguely familiar yet unplaceable in his mental bestiary. "Did anyone see her clearly?" Geralt asked, rising. Bronislaw shook his head, clutching his walking stick like a lifeline. "Only glimpses. A pale gown, hair like a black cloud in the moonlight. Her wails… oh, her wails. They freeze the blood." Geralt activated his Witcher Senses. The world sharpened, colors muted, sounds amplified. He could hear the frantic scuttling of rats under floorboards, the drip of water from a broken gutter, the faint hum of a disturbed insect nest. He saw the faint heat traces of Bronislaw’s frail body, the lingering cold where the plague had touched. He focused on the disturbed grave, searching for residual magical energy. There was a faint resonance, a lingering chill that spoke of necromancy, but also a deep sorrow, an almost palpable despair. "Has anyone else survived the plague?" Geralt asked. Bronislaw looked away, his eyes fixed on the empty horizon. "Only me. And little Ania. She’s in the house, hidden away. Her parents… they went last week. I’m all she has left." His voice was choked with unshed tears. Geralt nodded. He understood. The contract wasn’t just about a monster; it was about the last flicker of hope in a dying place. He spent the rest of the afternoon making a perimeter, examining the disturbed graves more closely. The damage was consistent: bodies unearthed, often dismembered. Not for consumption, it seemed, but in a frenzy of destruction. The tracks, where they were discernible, were bare human feet, remarkably long and slender. No claws, no beastial gait. Just the hurried, desperate shuffle of a person. As dusk began to bleed into the sky, painting the clouds in shades of bruised purple and grey, Geralt returned to Bronislaw’s house. Inside, a small girl, no older than six, huddled under a blanket by a cold hearth, her eyes wide and dark in the gloom. She clutched a threadbare rabbit doll. Her breathing was shallow, a faint wheeze in her chest. The plague had touched her too, but she was fighting. "Are you sure this 'banshee' only takes the dead?" Geralt asked Bronislaw quietly, out of earshot of the girl. Bronislaw nodded vehemently. "Yes! We keep the living inside. It's only the ones already gone. It's like… like she's trying to erase them. No trace left." Geralt watched Ania, her small face pale and drawn. He remembered other children, other losses. The familiar ache settled in his chest. "I’ll set a trap tonight. In the graveyard." He spent the last hour of daylight preparing, coating his silver sword with Specter oil, brewing a potent Black Blood potion, and meditating until his senses were needle-sharp. He chose a spot near the most recently disturbed grave, a shallow trench with a broken headstone. The air grew colder as night fell, the silence deepening, pressing down on him. Hours passed. The moon, a thin sliver, barely pierced the cloud cover. The wind began to whisper through the empty houses, a mournful sigh that seemed to echo Bronislaw’s descriptions. Geralt remained motionless, a statue carved from shadow and steel, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm. Then, he heard it. Not a wail, not yet. A low, guttural moan, a sound of profound anguish that seemed to tear at the very fabric of the night. It came from the direction of the graveyard. He moved silently, his steps light despite his age. As he neared the burial ground, the sound intensified, evolving into a keening lament that scraped against his ear drums. And then he saw her. She was tall, indeed, and slender, dressed in what appeared to be a tattered, pale shift that clung to her emaciated frame. Her hair, long and black, obscured much of her face as she bent over a fresh grave, digging with frantic, bare hands. Her movements were jerky, desperate, like a marionette with tangled strings. The wails tore from her throat, raw and full of an unbearable sorrow. Geralt drew his silver sword. The moonlight, breaking through a rift in the clouds, illuminated her just as she lifted a skull from the loosened earth, cradling it gently before letting out a shriek that ripped through the quiet village. She turned, her head snapping towards him. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and utterly vacant, staring through him as if he were merely another shadow. But it wasn't the vacant stare that froze Geralt’s breath in his chest, nor the skeletal frame, or the tattered dress. It was the face. The thin, sharp nose. The high cheekbones. The faint scar above the left eyebrow, almost imperceptible. The cascade of raven hair, now wild and matted. It was Yennefer. Not quite, not really. This woman was gaunt, distorted by suffering, consumed by a feral grief that had twisted her features into a macabre parody. But the resemblance was undeniable, an echo of the woman he had loved, a ghost in the flesh. His hand, gripping the hilt of his sword, trembled almost imperceptibly. The banshee let out another shriek, not of rage, but of utter despair, and lunged. Not towards him, but past him, towards the village, towards the house where Ania slept. Her movements were unnaturally swift, a blur of pale linen and dark hair. Geralt reacted instantly, his training overriding the sudden, sickening lurch in his gut. He intercepted her, his sword a silver blur. She twisted, surprisingly strong, striking at him with bony hands that felt like iron. Her touch burned, a cold fire that tried to sap his strength. He could feel the residual magic, but it was raw, untamed, more like a burst blood vessel than a controlled spell. "Yennefer?" he whispered, his voice rough. He knew it wasn’t her, not truly. But the name escaped him anyway, a desperate plea for recognition. The creature paused, her wailing dying to a choked sob. Her head cocked, as if the sound had registered somewhere in the depths of her madness. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something almost human crossed her eyes – a flash of recognition, perhaps, or just the reflected agony of a soul trapped in torment. Then, the vacant stare returned, and she let out a piercing shriek, pushing past him with renewed, frenzied strength. This wasn't a monster to be slain with steel, or even silver, not in the way he was used to. This was grief, made manifest, clawing its way through the remnants of a beloved face. And for the first time in decades, Geralt found himself hesitating, his blade poised, caught between duty and the echoes of a love that refused to die.