At the end of the ravine, the friends are greeted by the sight of at least a dozen sheep carcasses in different stages of decay. Is it just the myriapod's favourite place to have dinner or is it supposed to be a warning to keep other creatures from entering the valley, a macabre but probably quite effective way to mark the monster's territory? Well, it will not work with the Witchers, no matter how revolting the stench and the myriad blue and green carrion flies. Geralt has already examined the tracks when Jaskier and Cahir arrive at the myriapod's dinner table and is just about to mount his bay mare.
"It's been here no more than an hour ago," Geralt says, pointing at an only half-eaten sheep that looks indeed as if it has died just recently. The erstwhile white fur is covered in blood, the belly carved open by razor-sharp mandibles, the guts spread out on the greyish limestone. The sheep's head is missing. However, its flesh is not yet crawling with maggots and the stink is not quite as bad as the one wafting over from the older, decaying bodies. Jaskier holds his handkerchief to his nose, his face having taken on a greenish tinge. No wonder, the smell of rotting meat in this horrible place is far worse than even the stink of the sewers beneath Oxenfurt. Perhaps it is a good thing after all that they have not had anything to eat for lunch yet. Better to get out of here as quickly as possible.
Taking a deep breath through his mouth to avoid the worst of the stench, Cahir mounts his steed. Thunder has been unusually skittish ever since approaching the end of the ravine. The horse seems to dislike the location no less than his human companion, which makes a lot of sense considering the circumstances. He needs quite a bit of convincing to move past the carcasses and into the valley behind the no less skittish Roach. The clever animals must sense the recent presence of the dangerous predator and have little appreciation for their humans' wish to follow the creature instead of doing everything to avoid it. Cahir cannot blame them. It is their instinct to flee danger. An instinct that has helped hundreds of generations of horses to survive in the wild before elves started to domesticate them. Being excellent horsemen, both Geralt and Cahir manage to control their steeds though and make them ride toward the lake where the Witchers expect to find the monster.
They do not have to search for long. However, they find far more than they expected. Cahir has read every book on myriapods he could find in the vast Kaer Morhen library, but none of them mentioned anything like it. Perplexed, he stares at the surprising scene. There is not just one single myriapod, but a whole family. They are taking a sunbath on the rocks by the lake.
"Fuck," Geralt says. And it is exactly what Cahir is thinking. Those creatures are not supposed to procreate. They either came to this world through the conjunction of the spheres a long, long time ago, or were artificially created by mages, like the Viy of Maribor that destroyed half the city before fleeing to Dol Dhu Lokke, the legendary, infamous monster lair. If they did not just recently arrive on the continent via the monoliths. Which might be, at least partly, his fault. But none of them has ever been known to reproduce by themselves, at least not to Cahir's knowledge. Nevertheless, here they are, two gigantic arthropods and half a dozen small ones that are crawling all over the place on their far too many toes. Hell, their job is going to be a lot more difficult than expected. Again. First the almost disaster with the second troll, and now the multiple myriapods. Just their shit luck again.
"The dark brown one without the horns looks like a giant centipede," Cahir observes. Which makes things even more baffling.
"Hm," Geralt confirms. "They apparently do not only procreate, but also interbreed. I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it right in front of my eyes."
"The baby ones are kind of funny, like overgrown pill bugs," Jaskier remarks. "Too bad they turn into those ugly, giant buggers."
"I guarantee you, they're not funny at all. Those little ones could easily cut off your fingers with their mandibles and inject you with a strong, paralytic venom. You stay away from them at all costs, Jask, understood?"
"Ah, you worry about me, so sweet of you." Jaskier blows Geralt a kiss. "But I don't have a death wish. I'll just stay here behind this nice rocky rock and wait until you two are done and we can have our picnic. But don't take too long, I'm half starved already."
Geralt hms again. Then he turns to his fellow Witcher. "Any preference?"
"They both look pretty nasty, difficult to choose." Cahir frowns, gazing at the monsters. "The choice might not be ours anyway. They've noticed us."
And indeed, as they speak, the two more than twelve feet long creatures are rising from their lying positions, stretching the upper half of their segmented bodies with the rows of numerous hooked feet high into the air. The Myriapod is staring into their direction from small but piercing, yellow eyes. It cannot have spotted them, can it? Very unlikely, the rocky outcrop they are hiding behind offers perfect cover. Have the creatures heard the horses? Smelled the monster hunters' scent? Or have they sensed the vibrations in the soil caused by their movements? Well, it does not make a difference. The two huge beasts are poised to attack. Producing strange, high-pitched chittering noises, the monsters bare their sword-like mandibles. However, neither of the incredibly fast creatures makes a move to charge at them. Both stay where they are. To protect their young, no doubt. Darn. Looks like the non-sentient creatures are smarter than the books give them credit for.
"Ready?" Geralt asks, drawing his silver sword. Cahir nods, doing likewise.
Together the two comrades emerge from the rock outcrop and slowly walk toward the monsters, their swords raised. They will have to either slice open the beasts' bellies where the shell is not quite as hard and impenetrable as on their dorsal side, or cut off their heads while avoiding any skin contact with their acidic, venomous spit. Sounds like fun.
The creepy chittering grows louder, then the sounds produced by the giant arthropods change into hissing growls. Suddenly, the monsters rear even higher into the air. Just before they leap at the Witchers in perfect sync. However, Geralt and Cahir are ready for them. Quick as lightning, they run toward the beasts, slashing at them with their keen silver blades. The monsters hiss and rear up again. With their enormous mandibles they try to cut the attackers in two. Luckily, they are not fast enough for the two monster hunters. The men duck and dodge and swivel all around the beasts so swiftly that Jaskier can only see blurs of black leather and, in Geralt's case, long silver hair. He holds his breath, his heart racing although he is the only one at the moment who is neither running nor fighting. He completely trusts in his friends' abilities and knows in his heart that the gigantic beasts are doomed. Still, witnessing the monster fight from not that far away is scary as hell.
It does not take Geralt long to hack off one of the myriapod's deadly chewing mouthparts. It falls to the ground, yellow haemolymph gushing from the stump. The injured beast roars with fury and pain. Then, blazingly fast, it burrows into the earth and comes up directly in the spot where Geralt was standing, brandishing its horrible horns for a second. Suddenly, it freezes, its evil yellow eyes glaring down at the Witcher. The Yrden Sign trap the experienced monster slayer has placed on the spot just before jumping to the side is working perfectly. With incredible speed, Geralt pivots to gain momentum. Then, swinging his sword in a perfect arch, he chops off the creature's ugly, horned head. It drops to the ground with a thud. The many feet of the beheaded myriapod jerk and twitch as the body crumples, then it lies still, thoroughly dead. Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief. One monster down, one more to go.
Cahir is still fighting the centipede. The overlong beast tries to wrap itself around its two-legged attacker, but the young Witcher manages to evade it every time, and then launches a counter attack. Several of the centipede's many feet are already littering the hard soil, cut off by Cahir's silver sword. The enraged creature spits a big glob of its venom at the human, but, just in time, Cahir rolls out of harm's way. He springs to his feet and, from behind, slashes at the creature's head. Before the blade hits its mark, though, the centipede has - much like a pill bug - curled up in a protective loop. Damn, like this it is impossible to kill. The chitinous shell is too hard by far for any sword to cause serious damage to the monster, no matter how deadly its blade. On the other hand, the beast cannot attack either. A stalemate. Cahir takes a deep breath and wipes the sweat from his face. He looks at Geralt questioningly. Perhaps his older friend has an idea how to unroll the coiled up, carapaced creature? So he would finally be able to end it? Perhaps there is a Witcher sign that can be used for this purpose. Would it uncurl if incinerated by an Igni? The books did not mention it, though, nor anything else that might work. Except for waiting. The centipede might swing its body around in a wide sweeping attack before burrowing in the ground to reappear elsewhere after mere seconds or minutes. Or it could stay coiled up for hours. Cahir definitely has no desire to wait that long.
Neither has Geralt. And he has an idea. He does not like it much, but he is pretty sure it will be effective. He sprints toward the lake where the little myriapod-centipede hybrid babies are still crawling about the warm rocks, oblivious to the fighting and the death of one of their parents. It does not take more than a minute and he has one of them skewered onto his blade. The arm-long creature is not fatally wounded and thrashes and struggles in pain and fear while emitting loud, squeaking noises. Not very ethical, but it is what Geralt wants it to do. What is needed.
The giant centipede's reaction is instantaneous. Within the blink of an eye it uncurls and throws itself at Cahir, who is standing in its way to rescue its baby. The razor-sharp pair of mandibles cuts through the air and, by a hairbreadth, misses the young Witcher's neck. A split second later, the centipede crashes into him with force and they fall to the ground, the huge creature burying the man underneath its enormous body.
"Fuck!" Geralt swears. He knew centipedes are fast, but this was far faster than he has ever seen one move. The baby monster still pinned to his sword, writhing and squeaking, he runs toward his friend. The monster is still lying there, not making any attempt to get back onto its feet. Its limbs are twitching, otherwise it does not move. Is it dying? Or dead already?
"Cahir?" Geralt asks apprehensively, kneeling down next to the monster's body. Its legs have stopped twitching. The gigantic insectoid appears to be dead. His friend must have managed to get a lethal blow in before they crashed.
"Cahir, can you hear me?" he tries again when there is no answer and starts to push the arthropod's heavy body to the side. A muffled groan. Geralt sighs in relief. Thank goodness, he is alive. With a grunt, he heaves the dead creature off his buried friend and helps him to his feet.
"Yikes," Geralt says, grimacing. "You look worse than I did after I cut my way through that selkimore from the inside. Everything alright, brother, besides the yuck?"
Cahir nods, spitting on the ground and wiping his face on his sleeve. Which does not really help as there is hardly a yuck-free thread on him. From head to toe he is covered in yellow haemolymph and centipede entrails.
"Remind me to never slice anything's guts open while I'm standing right in front of it," he mutters darkly, spitting once again. Is it just the nasty smell of the arthropod blood that makes him want to vomit or did he swallow any of it by accident? In contrast to the saliva it is not poisonous, at least not as far as he knows, but it is thoroughly disgusting.
"On the path getting yourself showered in blood and gore is unavoidable sometimes, the lesser of two evils," Geralt says with a grin. "You did good, little brother. If you weren't so totally loathsome at the moment, I'd give you a hug. Good it's only temporary."
"Melitele's tits! And I thought I had seen it all!" Jaskier, having left his hide-out and walked up to his victorious comrades as soon as the monsters seemed dead, exclaims. "That is - that is truly eww, worse than the sewers, so much, much worse. Good that Yennefer can't see you like this. Or, heavens forbid, smell you." He grimaces, rolling his eyes at Cahir. "But you're lucky, my non-Nilfgaardian friend," the bard continues with a wink. "I never travel without a piece of soap and a few nice scents. I'd be willing to share if we can finally have that lakeside picnic now. By the way," he adds, beaming at them, "you Witchers did an amazing job. As I knew you would. Definitely worthy of a ballad. And a little feast."
"Not so fast, Jaskier. There are still a few baby arthropods that need to be taken care of." Geralt looks at his sword meaningfully. The unfortunate little creature skewered to it has stopped squeaking and struggling. Jaskier goes pale. He knows they cannot leave any of them alive, but he does feel bad for the funny little buggers.
"Don't watch, Jask," Geralt says. "And you, Cahir, go wash. I can do it."
So, while Geralt hunts down the remaining baby monsters and takes terminally care of them, Cahir takes a very necessary bath in the lake. The water is crystal clear and refreshingly cool despite the hot summer. Shoals of small fish flit away and disappear between the reeds when he dives in head first from a rock to get the worst of the disgusting centipede stuff off his face and hair. He does not dare swim too far though as the lake looks really deep in the middle and you never know what creatures might lurk at the bottom of a lake. That legendary pike with a spike from Jaskier's song, for example. The bard is not wrong with his song, Cahir suspects. It is wise to beware in Posada. If myriapods and giant centipedes can interbreed here, you never know what other beasts can do. And better safe than sorry. So he returns to the shore quickly and starts to clean himself and his clothes as best as possible with the help of Jaskier's soap. Then he picks up the small glass vial Jaskier conjured up from his belt pouch for him. Normally he is not one to indulge in the use of fragrances, but today an exception is not only in order, but very much needed, Cahir decides. He sniffs at the content of the vial. Apple, cinnamon and lemon blossoms. Could have been a lot worse from what Geralt has told him about Jaskier and his extravagancies. Actually, the scent is quite nice and does help to drive away the lingering, nauseatingly icky memory of the arthropod stench.
Feeling a lot better and decidedly cleaner, albeit very wet without both a towel or dry clothes, Cahir turns around, away from the lake, his hair, shirt and pants dripping with water. Well, it will not take that long until the sun has dried everything again. There are still many hours of sunshine ahead. He gazes around. Jaskier is sitting against the trunk of an old, expanding tree not far away by the lakeside, a piece of bread in one hand and a sausage in the other, just about to regale himself with his late lunch after having watered the horses and set up the picnic table in the tree's shade. Geralt is still searching for monster spawn between the rocks. Have some of the baby monsters run away and hidden in the numerous crevices and cracks there? Perhaps Geralt needs some assistance with the little pests?
Cahir is just about to walk toward his Witcher friend, when he suddenly hears a strange whooshing in the air. He looks up. And freezes in his tracks. A dark shape is swooping down from the sky, huge, fast and deadly, instantaneously filling him with horror. A Wyvern? A Dragon? Whatever it is, it is stretching out its terrible talons to sink them straight into Geralt's back.
Before Cahir can cry out to warn his friend, though, the Witcher swivels around and slashes at the creature's scaly belly. With his enhanced Witcher perception, he must have sensed the approaching flying monster in time, thank the gods. It screeches and veers, then it attacks again. Cahir grabs his sword and darts along the lakeshore to help his comrade. However, it is not necessary. With an elegant, sweeping movement, Geralt slices through the winged creatures long, slender neck. The blow does not sever it entirely, the beast is too big for that, but it is lethal enough. Showering the Witcher with dark red blood, the draconid crashes onto the rocks and breathes its last gurgling breaths.
Geralt stands still for a moment. Then, with a groan, he crumples to the ground.