They ride through the beautiful early morning landscape in silence. Jaskier, having come to Posada with the help of Yennefer's portal, is sitting behind Geralt on Roach, still more than half asleep - which explains his unusual quietude. According to the mayor, the monster's lair must be somewhere in the mountainous wilderness east of the village. The mountains there are karstic and cavernous providing countless hiding places for all kinds of wild animals like wolves and bears, and for monsters. It will not be easy to find the myriapod. On the other hand, the giant arthropod might find them. They better beware ...
About an hour's ride from the village, the comrades spot the cadaver of a sheep not far from the path. The ribs are almost gnawed down to the bone and thousands of blue bottle flies are buzzing around the rotting body. Not a fresh kill, but fresh enough to be worth a closer look. Geralt and Cahir dismount to examine the remains of the unfortunate animal while Jaskier is holding his nose. With a grimace of disgust, he swats away a flesh fly that seems to have taken a liking to him. Yuck!
"Can we just go now?" he asks, gazing around uneasily. If the monster has killed a sheep here, it might come back, right? Of course, the two Witchers would dispose of it in a jiffy, he is sure of it and would trust both of them with his life. If he did not, Jaskier would have stayed in Novigrad. The bustling city has grown on him so much over the last couple of weeks, he has indeed started to look for a location that might be turned into a cabaret. But still, somehow he feels more nervous than usual. Scared by his own song, perhaps? Nah, it is probably just because he has not been on a monster hunt for ages. When was the last time, actually? Way before they got to Toussaint on their search for Ciri. The archespore? Yes, that must be it. Almost a whole year ago. He is definitely out of practise. Good that the Witchers aren't. Slaying two trolls at once was certainly the perfect training.
"There's another one," Cahir, who has followed the tracks left by the sheep killer up the slope, says, ignoring Jaskier's question. "Behind the bush over there. No more than a day old. The myriapod's lair cannot be far."
Geralt nods. The tracks of far too many sharp toes in the soil around the carcass suggest that this is the myriapod's work, indeed. They are getting closer. Unfortunately though, the comrades have to leave the path and climb up the stony, wild mountain side. The terrain soon becomes too difficult for riding and they have to dismount and lead the horses by the reins. As the friends are ascending, the sun is, too, and it becomes uncomfortably hot. Jaskier wipes his sweaty brow with his handkerchief. Although he is sufficiently awake by now, he is too out of breath from the hike and the heat to sing or talk. Which is quite fortunate as thus he cannot draw the attention of any lurking monster toward the group.
Despite the very many toes and the massive size of the myriapod, its tracks are difficult to spot on the dry, stony ground and between the thorny bushes growing on the mountain side. It is slow going. To Jaskier's relief it turns out that the monster did not crawl all the way up to the top of the mountain but only halfway. From there it descended down a ravine on the other side and into the narrow valley below. They can see a nice little lake nestled between the roots of the surrounding mountains. Its blue water sparkles and shimmers in the sunshine. There are reeds, bushes and trees all around it, an oasis of green in the otherwise mostly dried out landscape.
"What a beautiful place for a rest," Jaskier exclaims, "almost worthy of a song. Or a bath perhaps? The water looks delightfully cool and fresh. A picnic by the lakeshore would be nice, too. A pros pos picnic," Jaskier looks at Geralt inquiringly. "You didn't forget to bring provisions, Geralt?" Unconcerned, the Witcher shrugs his shoulders. "Oh, of course, you did forget. As Witchers simply live on danger and sweat, on blood, gore and grime, even thrive on it. How could I forget that they have no need of regular meals like any normal person. Or of breaks and rest, a nice swim in the lake, a nap under a tree—"
"The monster might fancy all of that, too, Jaskier, including the regular meals," Geralt says dryly, interrupting the bard's string of complaints. "You'd be wise to stay away from those trees and the lake. At least until Cahir and I've made sure the myriapod isn't having a nice swim there, or a nap."
"You're in luck, too." Cahir winks at the bard who has fallen silent at Geralt's words. "I'm not a real Witcher. Plus I wouldn't let a friend starve. There's bread and sausages in my saddle bag."
"Have I ever told you that I love you, Cahir, son of Ceallach?" Jaskier says, brightening up considerably. "No, probably not. You'd not remember it anyway if i had, I guess. Well, I might compose a ballad about it. The lovely non-Nilfgaardian, non-real Witcher who always has bread and sausages in his bag. And who wouldn't leave a friend on a mountain. Let's see, how to start the ballad? Hm. The beginning is always hardest—"
"You better start moving, I suspect," Cahir advises with an amused grin, "or I'll have to leave you on this mountain, no matter what the ballad says. Geralt's already halfway down the ravine." Pulling lightly on Thunder's reins, he sets out to follow his Witcher comrade, Jaskier hurrying after him. "And don't talk, Jaskier," Cahir cautions when the bard is about to open his mouth again. "Geralt's right about the myriapod. It might have its lair not far from the lakeside. See those caverns over there? They'd make a perfect home for the monster. And sound travels easily across the valley."
As Jaskier can be astoundingly reasonable when necessary, this, unfortunately, is the end of the ballad about the lovely non-Nilfgaardian, non-real Witcher, at least for now. As quietly as possible on the gravelly ground and with the horse in tow, the two friends follow the White Wolf down into the valley, cautiously looking and listening for any signs of the huge and deadly arthropod. However, the only thing they can hear are a few birds in the sky. Apart from that it is eerily silent. Not a sheep nor any other animal to see, not even a rabbit although, judging by the many rabbit holes, the burrowing, fluffy creatures must have dug a big colony here. Jaskier shudders at the obvious reason for this lack of wildlife. Either the animals are in hiding somewhere, have left the area or have already been devoured by the many-legged monster. Not exactly a reassuring thought. Suddenly even the big birds circling the sky have something sinister about them. What if they are scavengers waiting for the myriapod to kill the three humans so they can swoop down and peck the last remains of meat from their ribs after the monster is done with them? No, no, bard, Jaskier berates himself, there is no need for dark thoughts like these. Between Geralt and Cahir the ridiculously many-toed beast will be dead as a doornail within the blink of an eye, it cannot be otherwise. And if those birds are out for corpses, it will be the one of the monster. No dying of a main character here today, nor any other day, thank you very much. Still, Jaskier cannot shake this inexplicable, uneasy feeling. With another apprehensive glance back across his shoulder he quickens his pace a little to catch up with Cahir and his magnificent black horse. Walking directly next to a Witcher with his two razor-sharp swords, no matter whether a real one or not, eventually calms his nerves a little.
When next Jaskier looks up into the bright blue sky, the birds have disappeared.