Geralt's Arc

Chapter 10 of 17

The trail north ran into a wall of white. Snow fell so thick Geralt could not see the pass ahead. Wind screamed down from the peaks and drove ice into his face. The way to the beast's lair lay through this pass, and the cold would kill him before the runed door ever did. He pulled his cloak tight and squinted through the storm. Behind him, Rain kept the bound mage moving. Behind them lay only the slope they had climbed. There was no going back and no clear way forward. "The pass is closed," Geralt said. He raised his voice over the wind. "We freeze up here or we find shelter." Rain came to his side, black hair plastered to her cheeks. She was a sorceress, and cold as stone on the outside, but she had bled and climbed for this hunt beside him. Now she studied the white gorge and shook her head. "I can warm the three of us for an hour. Not a night. The storm will outlast my strength." Malachar laughed through cracked lips. His violet eyes still held their contempt even bound and shivering. "You brought me to die on a mountain. Fitting. The great Witcher, beaten by weather." He tipped his chin at Rain. "She could clear a path. If she touched the deep currents. But she never learned. She settles." "I settle for living," Rain said flatly. Geralt ignored the mage. He scanned the rock face beside the pass. Wind had scoured one shelf of stone bare. Below it, a dark seam split the cliff. A crack, maybe a hollow. He tied the rope from his waist to Rain's, then to Malachar's, and dragged them toward it. The seam opened into a shallow cave. Not deep, but the wind died the moment they stepped inside. Geralt shoved the mage against the far wall and checked his knots. Rain sank down, breathing hard. "Now warm us," Geralt said. "An hour at a time. We wait out the worst." Rain lifted her hands. Warmth spread through the cramped stone, faint but real. She fed it in small pulses to save her strength. Geralt sat between her and the entrance, sword across his knees, and watched the snow bury the mouth of the cave. The storm broke near dawn. Geralt woke to silence and gray light. He dug through the packed snow at the entrance and stepped out. The pass had cleared. Fresh drifts lay smooth over the trail, but the wind was gone and the way north was open again. He hauled Malachar up by the rope. The cold had left the mage gray and slow, but alive. Rain rose stiffly, spent from the long night's work. Geralt looked up the cleared pass toward the peak. Somewhere above waited the runed door and the beast that knew his scent. "We move now," he said, "before another storm shuts it again."