It soon turns out that, for once, destiny is not a bitch, neither metaphorically, nor literally.
With the first light of the new morning and the merry chirruping of the awakening birds, Cahir walks along the forest path, not alone but in the company of Gunwald, the peasant he saved from certain death, and Birte, his mule. The horrors of the night are soon, well, not forgotten, but fading into the background, or subconsciousness. The day promises to be sunny and warm and with the prospect of a good meal in addition to, perhaps, a nice surprise, whatever it may consist of - well, the nature of a surprise is that you do not know, right? - the general outlook as well as Cahir's mood are particularly good for once. Perhaps the light buzz from the remarkably potent and reviving hooch is also contributing to his exceptionally high spirits despite the lingering aftereffects of the concussion, the slight ache and stiffness in his shoulder and arm, and the smarting, itching blisters on his leg. It cannot be ruled out, no. In any case, not even Gunwald's constant chitchat can dampen the strong sense of optimism that somehow and quite suddenly has taken root in Cahir's heart. Or is it the effect of the mandrake root? No matter what, against all odds and reason - and although, according to what Gunwald tells him about the current political situation and the latest developments regarding the war, they are caught speck in the middle of the advancing Nilfgaardian army and the equally advancing Temerians - things will get better from today on, Cahir feels it in his guts. It cannot be otherwise.
He is not wrong, at least not at first. There is indeed a nice surprise waiting for him when, after not much more than half an hour, a smaller footpath branches off the forest track and, following it, they soon reach the little hamlet where Gunwald lives with his family. Or rather used to live, as the cart laden with all kinds of household items that is standing in the little yard in front of the house indicates the immanent and possibly also permanent evacuation of the place. Besides the smallish house there is a barn and several outbuildings. In a fenced-in paddock Cahir spots a half black and half white goat and a grey horse next to it. A happily woofing, shaggy brown dog comes running at his accidental and overly talkative traveling companion. Alerted by the dog's barks, a tall and thin woman well past child-bearing age emerges from the main building. She waves at them, or rather at her husband as she cannot possibly have any idea yet who the tall stranger walking a few paces behind Gunwald and his mule is and what on earth has brought him to their very remote dwelling place. She rushes toward her husband, pointing at the animals in the paddock.
"Look who's back! Can you believe it?" she exclaims. "Came trotting around the corner not ten minutes ago as if she'd never run off!" Gunwald stares at the horse - or at the goat? - in surprise, momentarily speechless.
"I'll be damned!" he eventually exclaims. "The bloody nag. Almost got eaten by an Alghoul while searching for her!" He turns to Cahir. "Guess your shit luck has run out, laddie. Just got yourself a mount. She's a sorry excuse for one, I must warn you, and stubborn as hell, but seems to me like you could make good use of the mare."
"I do need a horse," Cahir confirms. He casts the grey animal a scrutinising look. She is not a beauty and rather old, but the mare has four sturdy, shaggy legs and a broad back. And you don't look a gift horse in the mouth, do you? She will do until he finds a better steed. However, the horse is certainly the farmer's most precious possession, no matter how old and stubborn. He cannot accept the gift, can he?
"I do appreciate your generous offer," Cahir says earnestly. "Nevertheless, I must decline. It does not feel right. You don't have much, you said so yourself. You'll need the horse. I haven't saved you just to rob you afterwards."
"Don't you worry about us, laddie. Still got the mule for the cart. You have to take her, want it or not. It'll bring nothing but the illest luck upon all of us if you ignore the law of surprise. Nobody goes against destiny, no, not unpunished in any case, that's as sure as eggs is eggs." Gunwald looks at Cahir almost pleadingly. "Anyway, didn't think I'd see the nag ever again. T'was a stupid idea to go after her in the middle of the night. But, see, we have never had any monsters here arounds before. Must be that bloody war drawing those creatures out of their usual lairs from the Mealybug Marshes on the far bank of the Chotla. Vile wilderness, that. Those marshes are said to be crawling with necrophages of all sorts, ghouls, alghouls, graveirs, cemetaurs, to name just a few. And on top of it plenty of drowners, nekkers werewolves and vampires."
"What about this elven cemetery, Fen Carn? It's close, you said. The ghoul - or what did you call it, alghoul? - might have come from there."
"Nah, no monsters there, it's too old by far, nothing but stones and dry bones left. No ghoul, nor alghoul would thrive on bones alone. It's the fresh corpses that have started to pile up here just recently, I tell you. Damn those Nilfgaardians." Gunwald flushes and looks down at his badly worn boots, suddenly remembering that, with his outlandish looking sword and the slight southern accent, Cahir might very well be one of those Nilfgaardians. He quickly changes the subject. "I promised you breakfast, didn't I? So come on in. We don't have much, yes, I said it before. But you, Cahir, saved my bacon, so you shall have the last piece of bacon we've got in the pantry, I swear, and no objections."
And that is how, for the first time in a long while, Cahir sits down at a table for a simple but tasty and nourishing breakfast with porridge made of fresh goat milk, farmer's bread with goat cheese and, indeed, the last piece of bacon. There is even a boiled egg for him. A real and well-deserved treat. Cahir has not felt that sated in weeks. Sated and, all of a sudden, terribly tired. However, he cannot linger even though the thankful peasants would surely extend their hospitality for a while longer. No, he has to find the Witcher before he is over the hills and far away, gone and lost forever, and with him Cahir's chance to redeem himself.
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At first the grey mare is not willing at all to leave the paddock with her mule and goat friends. She is a stubborn beast indeed, a lot more so than the mule. However, when Gunwald fetches a scary looking knout from the barn, she lets herself be saddled and mounted. Not exactly happily, but Cahir does not care. He needs to be on his way. If the Witcher and his company took the same route and did head to the refugee camp, they would have arrived there the previous afternoon, he calculates. Hopefully so late in the afternoon that they would have stayed the night. Even if they had struck camp at first light, he would only be three, four hours behind them. If he can make the mare move faster than just pace, that is.
"Here, trust me, you'll need it." Gunwald holds the knout out to Cahir who takes it reluctantly. Beating a horse into obedience is not the way he treats his steeds. Nevertheless, with this stubborn mount and the urgency of his travels, he might have no choice.
"Most times a very light touch with it on that broad behind is enough," Gunwald declares. "But if you want to make her gallop, you'll have to strike a little harder, I fear." He gives the horse a clap on her rump and she starts to put one leg before the other. "Good luck with the nag. And with everything else."
"You too." Cahir nods at the short man and his wife who is standing in the doorway with their ten-year-old daughter, waving him good-bye. Then he clucks his tongue and spurs his new horse. The mare falls into a trot.
"And thanks again for saving my life," he hears Gunwald shout from behind just as Cahir and the mare turn onto the forest path that would bring them to the ancient elven cemetery. He does not turn around. Hopefully, the man and his family will be safe. Nevertheless, they are no longer his concern. He has a mission to complete, and, for once, destiny seems to look favourably upon it, otherwise it would not have given him the much needed mount, would it?
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After not much more than two hours of riding, the forest suddenly recedes and a broad valley lies in the blazing late morning sun before Cahir. Thousands of burial mounds and moss-covered monoliths are spread about the area as far as his eye can see. Some of the boulders are ordinary, shapeless lumps of stone, others smoothly hewn and shaped into obelisks and menhirs while the ones closer to the centre of the necropolis were formed into dolmens, cairns and cromlechs. Now, in broad daylight, it is almost a sight of beauty if one has a liking for old ruins and the ambience of decay. Not Cahir's favourite, but it has a certain charm, he has to admit it. However, he is more than glad that he does not have to cross this forest of stones by night, even if what Gunwald said is true and there are no monsters hiding between the graves.
The path leads Cahir along the edge of the burial ground and the forest. It does not take long and he can see a clearing between the pines and larches a little off the track with a small shack surrounded by hagberry shrubs in it. Perhaps this is the abode of the crazy barber-surgeon Gunwald was talking about? If he had any money, he might be tempted to check it out and buy some of the man's moonshine, but with not a floren to his name and neither anything he could use to barter, Cahir rides past the clearing without having a closer look. He needs to hurry.
If he had taken the time to investigate, though, Cahir would have found the hearth still a little warm from the barley gruel that was cooked there earlier in the morning and noticed that the grass around the shack was trampled and looked as if a larger group of people had camped there for the night. He might even have discovered the one bright green parrot feather between the leaves of a hagberry bush. Then he would have known for sure that he is on the right track and hardly more than two hours behind the Witcher and his company. However, as Cahir does not stop and the path is too dry so there are no easily visible signs of it having been used so very recently, he cannot know it. But he will find out soon anyway. The refugee camp is not far.
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The camp by the Chotla River is huge. Several hundred people plus their belongings, including numerous animals, great and small. They make a fearful racket that can be heard from afar, a cacophony of human shouts, the whinnying of horses, braying of donkeys, sheep's and goats' bleating and cows' lowing, and, of course, the crying of children and barking of dogs. As he rides closer, the typical smell of a refugee camp accompanies its din - the stink of boiled cabbage and shit.
It is not difficult to ascertain that the Witcher and his company have indeed arrived in the camp only shortly before Cahir reaches it. A white-haired, scary looking rider accompanied by a group of dwarves, a troubadour and several women and children riding into the camp is not a sight that is easily missed. The group must have become the centre of interest within only minutes after setting foot between the many campfires, wagons and shelters. The very first young boy he asks, tells Cahir all about it. He has not seen them lugging a heavy wagon, though. The group seem to not only have gotten rid of or lost the cumbersome vehicle but also a few dwarves. Nevertheless there is no doubt. The White Wolf is here, Cahir has found him. And it looks like he is not in a particular hurry to leave the camp yet. Probably trying to purchase provisions for the next leg of the journey. A journey that will take him east again for a while. Perhaps it will be best to cross the river and wait for the Witcher on the far bank? Cahir is sure he will not have to wait for long. And from the other side he will have no problems noticing the conspicuous traveling companions when they depart while he himself will be hard to spot between the reeds in the marsh and the dense vegetation of alder and willow trees and bushes growing on the opposite bank of the Chotla.
He rides through the thicket along the edge of the camp toward the river and crosses it down in the gully. Soon Cahir finds a sunny spot with a good view of the refugee camp. He tethers the grey mare to an alder tree and leans against its knotty trunk, yawning tiredly. No time to rest just yet, though. First he should try to catch a glimpse of the Witcher. He shadows his eyes with his hand and gazes across the river. The dark water sparkles in the sunshine. A crowd of people has gathered by a tall, spreading maple not far from the bank. Something seems to be going on there, some kind of assembly? Is there a girl tied to the rack of a wagon with sacks on it? Her arms are spread wide apart and her shift and blouse are torn away revealing her shoulders. A fire has been started directly alongside the wagon. Cahir can hear the excited cries of a male person, but it is too far away to understand the words. The man is thin and clad in black, his robes loosely hanging on his skinny frame. He reminds Cahir a bit of the crazy religious fanatic predicting doom and the end of the world in the crowded Gors Velen market place when he was on the run with Yennefer. Perhaps this man here is some kind of priest? And the girl by the wagon accused of something? Probably the usual, adultery, consorting with demons, witchcraft or possession by some evil spirit. Most likely the end of the girl, and not a pretty one.
A horsefly lands on his cheek and he swats it without taking his eyes off the other river bank. It is difficult for Cahir to make out any individuals in the teeming throng of people, but a peasant of immense size appears to be some kind of leader figure. The headman of the camp? A heated argument between him and the supposed priest seems to arise. All of a sudden, Cahir can hear a familiar sound. The loud squawking of a bird. The green parrot! Then the dwarves' leader cannot be far. Odds are the Witcher is there, too. And indeed, near the center of attention he spots an unusually tall figure with white hair. Must be the White Wolf. He is stepping out from the crowd. Does he intend to save the girl? This is going to be interesting. And will hopefully not create any problems. An incited superstitious mob of people with hoes and pitchforks can be a lot more dangerous than any monster.
After a short verbal exchange with the priest, another familiar face joins the Witcher, standing alongside him, his hands on his battle axe. The dwarven leader, his parrot perching on his shoulder. And Milva not a second later, her bow ready in her hands. What the hell is going on? If he could only understand what they are saying, but alas, Cahir cannot. Which makes him more than uneasy. If things go south for the Witcher and his friends, there is nothing he can do about it, is there? His tiredness and headache forgotten, Cahir keeps on watching the scene that unfolds before his eye with a growing sense of trepidation.
Suddenly the crowd cheers enthusiastically at something the priest says. Shit, this does not bode well for the Witcher and his comrades. Then a grey-haired stranger in black robes tied around the waist with some kind of apron walks up to the dwarf and places a hand on his shoulder. He walks over to the fire, bows to the priest and the audience, stoops and calmly reaches into the flames. The crowd screams as one. The scream echos across the river. What the fuck is the man doing? Either he is stark raving mad, or a sorcerer. But since when do sorcerers look like tax collectors? The man straightens up and walks unhurriedly over to the priest, who, appalled, takes a step back and bumps into the peasant standing behind him. The man with the grey hair holds up something in his hand. It glows like white-hot metal. A horseshoe? If he were a regular human, this would be totally impossible. His hand would be badly burned and he ought to be screaming his lungs out from the pain. He must be a mage after all, or some other superhuman being. He moves the glowing horseshoe to his left hand and shows his right to the priest, then he holds it up for everybody to see. The crowd roars.
The supposed priest seems not to be happy with the outcome of what apparently was some kind of trial of ordeal. He bellows something at the stranger who throws the horseshoe at the ground. Then he waves an amulet in front of the man's nose and traces all kinds of mysterious signs in the air with his other hand. Some sort of exorcism? The grey-haired stranger is not impressed or affected in any way. In contrast to the dwarf, who shouts angrily at the crowd. Suddenly, his voice is drowned out by a piercing cry.
"Niiiilfgaaaaaard!"
Within a single second, all hell breaks lose. Fuck!