Chapter 17

They hunted herbs in the thicket all day. By evening, with the sky paling, the pair and their horse came to a ten-foot-wide river whose murky surface ran out of sight. Letho stopped without warning; his amber pupils narrowed to thin slits. Watching his back, Roy thought of a cat on high alert, only much larger.

“What is it? Dangerous here?” Roy asked.

Letho signaled him to be quiet, then moved like a shadow to the water’s edge. He scooped a blue scale out from between the river stones, put it to his nose, sniffed, and stepped back.

“Looks like we should make camp further off,” he said. “There’s something in the river.”

“You mean—” Roy scanned the tainted water and felt a sudden rush of excitement.

“Drowners in the water.” Letho tossed the scale into Roy’s palm. “See? Drowner scales are not like ordinary fish. They’re thicker, with a little protuberance in the center, and you can smell rot on them.”

Roy’s Perception wasn’t high enough; he couldn’t detect any odor. He followed Letho away from the bank for a few paces, then hesitated and rapped the Witcher’s broad back with a tentative hand.

“Master Letho, can I at least see one? If I’m going this way, sooner or later I’ll have to deal with them. If we ignore them now, how many more people will suffer?”

“Do you know the other name Witchers give Drowners,” Letho said coldly, “newcomer killers. They exist to punish curious, meddling kids like you.”

Roy drew in his shoulders. Still, Letho tied the horses and came back to the water to scout. He found more scales, thought for a moment, then methodically checked his gear: bombs, potions, everything. He moved with the air of someone preparing for a real threat.

Roy was surprised. “Is that necessary? Drowner strength doesn’t seem that impressive.”

He had slaughtered hundreds of them in games; their guttural, nasal cries still haunted him. In his memories they were humanoid, maybe a bit quicker, excellent swimmers, but otherwise not fearsome.