Chapter 4

It was nearly dusk by the time Geralt had made his way back to the Dunwich tavern for a half-decent meal after the day's exploits. A small infestation of ghouls had supposedly been plaguing the old tomb just outside of town. The buried miners' tools and the stench of cold meats, sweat, and watered down ale, however, led Geralt instead to a ratty gang of grave robbers from Cidaris. The young men had cleverly littered the area with torn bits of flesh and fur from various farm animals, adding colour to their ruse. They had not, however, counted on an actual Witcher riding into town. Geralt had simply trapped them in the tomb and collected his coin before simply reporting them to the local Lord to do with what he wished.

The Witcher was met with the usual shift in atmosphere as he walked into the beer-soaked building. A few people moved tables or shifted in their chairs as he approached the bar. He paid for a mug of ale and a bowl of stew with some bread and pungent cheese. Once he sat in the corner with his meal, the noise of the tavern slowly drifted back to a typical volume of conversation, laughter, and the exchange of gossip.

"If the ash doesn't kill my crops this year, this horrid weather surely will," a stale cockney voice floated over to Geralt's ears amidst the din. "The flames were higher than some of the trees, I heard. Couldn't have come at a worse time. The soil's bound to be half silt for miles. Rain, ash, and animal corpses."

Geralt turned toward the speaker. Perhaps it was another fire elemental.

"What's this?" Geralt interjected, turning to the man who had spoken. A hush fell heavily across the tavern. The speaker, a scraggly grey-bearded farmer, hesitated for a moment as he looked to his comrades and back again.

"Well,...the blaze of the Elderwood! Back south down by Old Fellkirk. The whole county's been on about it. Burned up almost overnight after that great storm two days ago. Rain didn't do much good, though."

Geralt was already on his feet. He crossed the room to the man's table.

"Were there any reports of sulphur? A rotten egg smell?" he asked low, leaning in over the man's chair. The farmer shrank a little in his seat.

"N—no, Not that I heard...Me and the lads here just came from Fellkirk. The whole thing looks like Hell, but, nothing but wood smoke and the like," he stammered. "Some folk there suspected foul play, it caught so fast. But I don't see how anyone could've been in and out again."

The little food in Geralt's stomach suddenly turned to lead, and he was moving before the man had finished.

20 leagues Rowan walked. Three days of cold rain and wind. She carried no cloak or covering beyond the shall she had worn over her sleep gown. Her feet blackened and blistered with the cold after the first night, and she began to fear losing the use of her toes. The ground took to frost in the earliest hours each morning. The druid came across the old road on the second day, but with no head-covering to hide her disfigured ears, she didn't dare risk walking it. Instead, she kept well within the treeline alongside.

Rowan wept often as she walked. Her gut told her it was best to let it out. The emotions, the grief, would pass and she would survive. This was the way it had to be. She sobbed and lamented over everything she had lost. A full lifetime of belongings, memories, and peace. Although the druid had stopped keeping count of her years shortly after her 100th birthday, she felt the loss of it all. Of all the places she'd lived or survived, the Elderwood had been best to her. She hadn't even thought to grab her bow that night in the chaos of it all.

The days were straightforward, but harrowing. Forcing herself to rise from the frost, she would trudge onward, sobbing now and then until her body was once again warm from the effort. She would fill her belly with fresh water where she found it and forage where she could, though her stomach remained mostly empty; her limbs frost-bitten and weak. As long as she kept warm and hydrated, she told herself—she could survive this too.

The nights were a blur of exhaustion. With no other option, the druid built a small fire each evening at dusk. Curled around the flame as least, she could keep warm without exhausting herself further. Not for the first time in her long life, hunger became the enemy of sleep. When sleep did come, it was heavy and filled with vivid dreams.

On the third day, she came upon a wide stream. The heavier rain had gently coaxed the smell of new mosses into the air nearby, and she followed the scent. She found a feast of milk cap mushrooms and bunch berries on the far side of the water and decided to stop for the day here. Her hands and feet were growing worse quickly now. She worked them, pushing the muscles and tendons to move normally as they warmed beside the fire, but she still feared the worst.

That night, the cold became so great and the rain so heavy, even Rowan's skills for sustaining a decent fire were eventually defeated. She huddled in on herself, her own breath the only weapon she held against the threat of the frost to her digits. The wind bit into her brutally, and she began to consider braving the road. The odds were becoming clearer. She could run the risk of crossing paths with the intolerant, even the malevolent; or she could remain and contend with the cold. The druid's mind faded and wandered aimlessly as her body trembled, fighting to endure. Before long her thoughts slipped gently from the earth she lay on and into a dark and soothing place.

Roach side-stepped anxiously as Geralt gently urged her onward toward a ghostly terrain of sodden ash. The Elderwood had been transformed into a lifeless sea of grey, peppered with the blackened stumps of trees and the shrivelled corpses of animals who'd been overtaken too quickly by the heat; now delicate shells of death.

"Shit…" the Witcher breathed as he took it all in.

The alien landscape was made all the more eerie by the occasional squawk of a raven or vulture plucking at whatever flesh remained, if any, between the waves of ash. The Witcher leaned forward and patted the mare's neck.

"Common, Roach," he whispered, urging her forward. "We're in a hurry."

Wherever they wandered, Geralt neither smelled sulphur, nor foul play. In fact, he could barely track any one scent as he rode. The acrid smell of "burnt" drowned even the faintest odors that carried on the wind. The longer he spent searching the wood without so much as a hint of life, the more urgently he rode. A steady drizzle began just after midday, but Geralt continued to hunt for any hint of Rowan's scent until frustration set him on the edge of dread.

Not long after the light began to fade, he came upon something he recognized. The old road sat still visible with it's patches of pebbles and well-trod ground. Less than an hour ride from the clearing, Geralt suddenly found himself pushing Roach into a gallop, regardless of the terrain.

The Witcher was breathless by the time he reached the clearing. He did not know it by its own merit, however. It was the corpse of a giant sycamore that drew him swiftly from his horse. The thing had been scorched down completely, cracked open as if drawn and quartered. The hovel inside could be seen clearly, layered with ash at least six inches deep.

"Rowan!" Geralt barked. "Rowan!"

The Witcher raced to the edge of the blackened trench. "Rowan!"

He could see nothing but a thick layer of ash and mud marking the floor of the druid's home. Panic started to take hold as his yellow eyes scanned the hovel for any sign. His chest rose and fell as he tried to find her scent. Geralt slid down into what was left of the hovel on his hip, landing in a thick sediment of wet ash. He heaved crumbled pieces of furniture, branches, or brick aside.

"Rowan!"

He sifted through the wet ash, heavy and stinking, stumbling on the remaining roots that had collapsed into the small space. Nothing. The druid was nowhere to be found. Nor her scent.

Geralt finally stopped to catch his breath, the knot in his stomach loosening at last. The light was fading quickly as a heavier rain began to wash the muddy layers of ash from his hands and arms. Roach ambled over to see what was keeping her master.

"She's not here, Roach," Geralt panted. He looked up into the cold rain with a great sigh.

"...She's not here."