I: The Job

Jarl Siddgeir

The Jarl’s hall was dimly lit by the banked embers on the hearth and the first pale fingers of dawn finding their way through the narrow windows. There was only one occupant in the large room – Helvard, the Jarl’s housecarl, was watching me from the shadows. He startled at my voice.

“Wake your sleeping Jarl,” I said. “I’ve come for my coin.”

“Damn your cat’s eyes, witcher.” Helvard nervously touched his amulet of Akatosh as he stepped from the shadows. His unease was plain in his shaggy face.

“I could also smell your morning mead, housecarl.” I walked slowly down the hall towards the empty throne. “And the morning piss you took around the corner outside.”

The housecarl slunk around through a doorway out of sight. His superstitious fear was nothing new to me. I meet it every day, in every town and village. Here comes the witch-man, the freak, the mutant, the vagrant and cold-blooded butcher. They fear me almost as much as they need me, and they resent me all the more for it.

“You’re dripping blood on my floor, witcher. I take that to mean the job’s done?”

That tone is well known to me, as well. The haughty disdain of one who thinks his soft hide too precious to have any fear of a ragged wanderer. Young Jarl Siddgeir, wrapped in a luxurious robe, strode proudly into his hall and installed himself languidly in his overly ornate chair. He had the smooth skin and silky hair of one who has rarely seen the outdoors.

“The hag is dead, Jarl,” I said quietly. “I brought her head as proof.” I lifted the burlap sack, which was indeed leaking dark blood onto the flagstones. In my line of work, one learns to employ simple marketing tricks to ease negotiations. The Jarl’s eyes lit up. “I have concerns about her behavior, however,” I added. “I have never seen a hagraven take an interest in buried remains before, and she was very particular about which body she chose…” The Jarl’s interest quickly flagged, and he irritably waved my concerns away.

“What does it matter?” he interrupted. “The filthy creature is dead and gone.” He shook his head. “I’m sure the details of the hag’s activities are intensely fascinating for someone with the perverse tastes your kind are so famous for, but we decent folk are happy to forget the whole affair as soon as we can.” He grabbed a glass of wine from the hands of a timid servant and gulped down a swig, as if to wash the bad taste of my presence from his delicate mouth.

“You may leave the head with Nenya.” The Jarl gestured grandly at the bag. “She’ll make sure it is displayed in the town square to calm the fears of the smallfolk.” The Jarl’s steward, a tall woman with the golden skin and youthful beauty of a High Elf despite her ruffled locks, had taken up her position beside the throne. She looked rather distasteful as she gingerly took the bag off my hands. I had no doubt that that head would soon be mounted on the Jarl’s wall attached to a very tall tale about his heroic severing of it with his own disused axe. 

“And does the steward also hold my coin?” I prodded acerbically. Many would be surprised to learn that the likelihood of encountering attempts to weasel out of paying after a job is done tend to increase at a rate proportional to the depth of the payer’s pockets. This Siddgeir seemed just the type.

“She does,” the Jarl acknowledged. “However, there is a further matter of business I would like to discuss with one so efficiently able.”

I grunted in reply and wandered over to a small table where tankards of ale stood waiting. My courtly manners always tend to mysteriously dissipate in the presence of altered deals. At least the Jarl’s cellar had kept the ale cold.

“You’ve proven reliable,” Siddgeir began. “There’s a group of bandits in my hold that I… may have had a few discreet dealings with.”

I sighed and set my tankard down. He was one of those.

“I’m a witcher,” I interrupted the mighty Jarl. “A professional. My profession is to provide a specific service: to neutralize harmful monsters. I kill trolls, I drive away specters and break curses.” I looked Siddgeir in the eye. In this dim light, I imagine mine glinted in a way most would associate with a nocturnal predator, but the Jarl met my gaze flatly. “I am not a mercenary, or a hired killer.”

“Disappointing.” The Jarl’s voice was cold. I could hear fury thrumming in his heartbeat. “Is it not true that you witchers carry two swords, then? One of silver for monsters, and one of steel for men?” I still carried my silver sword sheathed on my back. I had left my steel in my saddlebags with Hervi, in the stables by the town gate.

“No,” I said just as coldly. “The steel one is for monsters on which silver has no effect. But it’s true, I’ve killed men. Many. And with ease.” I shifted my gaze to the Jarl’s housecarl, who was fidgeting with the steel mace that hung from his belt. “Men who have attacked me, or tried to cheat me out of my due.”

“I could have you on a scaffold for this.” The Jarl’s steward began to object, but he impatiently waved her aside. “But I will not have it said that the Jarl of Falkreath does not honor his word. That would be bad for business.” He rose abruptly. “Take your coin and begone from my hall, witcher. I will not have you in my sight a second longer!”

The Jarl stormed off, giving off an air of a petulant child rather than an incensed aristocrat. I accepted the purse offered to me by the steward, not even bothering to mention that it seemed lighter than agreed.