System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 103
Human cocoon was hauled free of the hole. When Old Hark saw that ghastly face, his head swam; he took a step back and sagged to the ground, limbs going numb.
“He ... he’s Barshel?” The old man turned to Roy in a flash; his lips, the corners of his eyes, his nose trembled, tears welling silently and then tracing down his cheeks.
The youth felt a pang of pity and tightened his brow, nodding once.
“My boy, what’s wrong with you!?” Old Hark scrambled forward as if he might fall and crawl, staring at the cocoon on the ground; his shaking hand reached out to touch the swollen, blistered face—
“You’d better not touch those places...” Roy pressed his lips together and warned, “If you disturb the eggs, it’ll hurt him badly. You can try calling his name; if he wakes he might manage a few last words...”
“Last words?! Don’t speak such nonsense, Barshel will go home alive! I’ll get him back, I’ll find the best healers in Ellander!” Old Hark tore at the spider-silk like a madman, pulling and letting out a heart-rending cry, “Barshel, can you hear me? Open your eyes, it’s Old Hark, your father is here to save you!”
The Metamorph Spider’s web was terribly tenacious; the old man’s pulling did nothing. Roy drew his steel blade to help.
Then, perhaps roused by the call of kin, Barshel gave a muffled “mm, mm,” his swollen lids twitched twice, then he struggled to open his eyes.
He saw his father’s silver hair, the deep gullies and gauntness of his old face.
For a moment, beads of tears welled in his puffy eyes and ran over his misshapen cheeks.
“Hark ... Hark...” Barshel moved his lips, making a faint sound; pain made his facial muscles twitch.
“I’m here, my child, Hark is here! How do you feel?” The old man’s face lit with wild joy as he pressed his ear to the boy’s mouth, trying to catch his words, “Where does it hurt? Don’t worry, good lad, your father will find someone to heal you.”
“It hurts ... I...”
Old Hark’s aged face was streaked with tears; he suddenly turned to the youth and begged, “Master Roy, help me, let us carry him back to town together!”
“Then I’ll carry him, that’ll be quicker.” Roy glanced at Barshel, crouched, and shook his head gloomily, “Put him onto my back.”
The youth did not truly believe anyone could mend such wounds, not even a sorcerer.
Perhaps only a wish granted by a powerful Djinn could save him now.
“I...” Barshel suddenly whispered. “I...”
“What is it, son?”
“Emi ... ly...”
“Emi...?”
“Who’s Emily? You want to see her? We’ll go back to the city and I’ll bring her to you, I promise!”
“White ... Rose...”
“White Rose!”
The Witcher, who had not yet recovered from surprise, found himself puzzled; at such a time, why mention the White Rose?
Order of the White Rose of Ellander? Could it have something to do with his fate?
“Don’t worry, child, catch your breath, tell us when you’re back on your feet, speak slowly once you’re healed.”
“Kill ... me...”
Old Hark shuddered at that, frozen and helpless, a strained, ugly smile crossing his face.
“Hold on a little longer, we’ll go home at once.”
“It hurts ... kill ... me!”
“It hurts, kill me!”
Old Hark took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, covered his face with his hands; his shoulders shook as he sobbed without a sound.
“He’s been parasitized by a Metamorph Spider, there are many spiderlings inside him, and he’s terribly weak.” Roy exhaled and spoke a cruel truth, “Every second he lives is torture; perhaps we should put him out of his misery.”
“No! Master Roy, you’re a Witcher, you must have some way to save him, right?”
Old Hark suddenly came up to the youth and grabbed his legs, “Please, I’ll pay you five times, no, ten times! I’ll give you all our money, just bring Barshel back.”
“I only want him to live!”
“Sorry, I can’t do it...” Roy said with difficulty. But looking at that father about to lose his son, a surge of impulse rose in him.
Help them!
What would Letho have done?
The boy frowned and thought, doing something was better than doing nothing.
“I have a grim idea, it might kill the spiderlings inside him...” He used the edge of his steel to cut through the web on Barshel, “but it also carries a high chance of hastening his death. If the worst happens, can you accept that?”
Roy peeled away the cut silk and glanced at Barshel’s uneven chest and belly, then shook his head with a sigh.
Across his chest, beneath his ribs and on his abdomen, dreadful bulges marked where eggs had already been incubating in his thorax and belly.
Those horrible little things were devouring his organs.
Besides the bulges, there was a neat finger-length incision on his right flank, unlike the slash of a spider’s leg; by what the Witcher had learned, it looked like a blade wound.
Ironically, the Metamorph Spider’s adhesive had sealed that wound and staved off the bleeding.
So someone had harmed Barshel before the spider did?
Roy remembered the young man’s strangely significant words, “White Rose? Emily?” What link lay between them?
While Roy pondered, Old Hark was frozen by the question—should he take his son back to town to seek proper healers, or try the Witcher’s almost-certainly-fatal method?
He could not decide.
“Kill ... me!” The tormented youth howled, beads of sweat forming on his swollen cheeks from the extreme pain.
“Kill ... me!”
“Please ... ugh—”
“Do it, don’t let him suffer anymore!” Old Hark broke down and shouted, “Whatever the result, I ... I accept it!”
Roy inclined his head, pinched the air and produced a narrow-necked bottle of emerald liquid, the Elixir “Swallow,” taken from the Bag of Holding.
“A small trick, nothing to fret over. This potion is an elixir Witchers use to mend wounds, and only a mutated body can withstand it. To a normal man its toxicity is brutal; taken it will leave irreparable aftereffects, but it is deadly to monsters as well.” He held the elixir up to the sunlight, studying its pure base color; the swirling green juice promised both hope and death.
“If Barshel drinks this Elixir, its poison will be enough to kill the spiderlings feeding on his flesh.”
“And Barshel?”
“The Elixir is both toxic and restorative, but his wounds are too grave and he could die at any time; the chance he pulls through is slim...” The youth’s voice cut off.
There was a soft pop as he loosened the cork and brought the bottle to his nose to smell, “Also, after taking the Elixir the spiderlings will thrash more violently for a time; the pain Barshel endures will increase.”
“Shall we continue?” Roy’s face was grave as his gaze swept over the father and son.
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