"Help! Anyone out there? Help me, please!"
He rides toward the source of the loud cries as fast as the uneven track and the dwindling light allow. Damn, the cries are coming from what must be some kind of swamp to the left of the path. Has the woman who is screaming for help lost her way? And is in mortal danger of sinking and drowning in the bog? Or is she being attacked by a monster? But what if she is the monster? A blood-thirsty beast that wants to lure him into a trap? There are plenty of tales of as well as lore on scary swamp creatures that do exactly that. Could be a wraith or banshee or some other kind of vengeful spirit, or a mischievous fairy. On the other hand she might not be a monster at all but a real woman in distress. He cannot just ride by and leave her to a horrible fate, no.
Cahir dismounts, takes his black stallion by the reins and carefully makes his way through the dense underbrush of willows, birch and alder trees surrounding the smelly, swampy area. Mosquitoes buzz around his face. Annoyed, he swats at them with his free hand. The dark soil is saturated with water and every step he and his horse take is accompanied by a squishy squelchy sound, but it feels solid enough to walk on without the imminent danger of getting stuck in the mud. Soon he can see the form of a person in the falling twilight, luckily not in the centre of the mire but, judging by the vegetation, just at the very edge of the truly dangerous part.
"Coming!" he shouts, leaves Thunder by an alder tree and walks toward the creature cautiously, both because of the treacherous ground and the possibility of a trap. Although, the woman, who appears to be stuck in the mud up to over the knee with one leg, looks human enough. Definitely not a wraith in a translucent white dress, nor a beautiful fairy ready to seduce and kidnap a lone rider, but an average looking, not too young peasant or tradeswoman. The Witcher medallion Vesemir gave to him just before he left Kaer Morhen does not vibrate, either. It should in the presence of any form of magic, be it a cursed creature, a genie or even a mage. Unless it does not work for him as he has not truly gone through the Trial of the Grasses. It is a possibility he cannot completely rule out.
"Gods, finally!" she exclaims, sighing with relief. "I've been stuck in this friggin mudhole for hours! That useless mare of mine got spooked by something, ran off and threw me, right in the middle of this god-awful, stinking quag."
Fortunately the ground on one side of the mudhole appears to be solid enough for Cahir so stand without sinking too deep into the squishy soil. He reaches out for the woman, grabs her and pulls. It is not easy, and they both are soon covered in mud, but with their combined effort they eventually manage to free her leg. The boot, however, is lost.
"That was a good boot, too," she complains. "Oh dear, what a shitty day. First I don't get paid half of what I wanted for my merchandise in town, and now my horse and my shoe are gone. I should have stayed in bed with my cat." She sighs again, then brightens up. "But thank you very much for getting me out of this icky pickle. Are you a knight, good Sir?"
"A Witcher."
"Ah, that's why you weren't afraid to come and help. Guess I got lucky for once today." She smiles at Cahir, a nice smile from a dimpled, friendly, slightly mud-speckled face. "Can I invite you for dinner, as payment for your troubles? I have a nice piece of loin waiting to be fried. My home's not far, just at the outskirts of the next village. I'd really appreciate it if I didn't have to hobble there with only one shoe, too." Smiling still, she glances first at her bootless foot and then at the black steed. "Unfortunately, I cannot offer you a room for the night, though. My husband wouldn't appreciate it if I lodged strangers at our home while he's gone on business. But there's a nice inn in the village."
Cahir nods in agreement. Having had a stuffed meat pastry from a market stall in the last town he travelled through, he is not that hungry, but the offer sounds harmless and genuine enough. It would be rude to decline. Saving the coin for a meal at the inn would be a good idea, too, as the villagers, whose monster he dispatched of just this morning, turned out to be as poor as church mice and could hardly pay him anything.
"We better get out of here before it's completely dark," Cahir then urges with a quick glance at the setting sun. The sky has turned a brilliant orange in the west. A beautiful sight, however, this is not the time and place to enjoy the sunset glow.
It does not take long and the two have left the smelly, mosquito-infested swamp behind. Leading Thunder by the reins, Cahir walks beside his steed while the woman is sitting on the horse, her soaked sock still dripping muddy water onto the track.
The evening star has just appeared in the sky when they arrive at her house not much later. Cahir expected a little farmstead, but it looks more like the home of a merchant, not a particularly rich one, but neither a poor one judging by the size and the well-kept condition of the building and the surrounding orchard. It is a bit out of the way, however, not suspiciously so. He can see the lights of the village not far in the distance. There is a small stable with room enough for two or three horses, but it is empty. The run-away mare has not returned yet. Hopefully she is not stuck in the marshes. Well, there is nothing Cahir could do about it now in the dark, and it is hardly his problem anyway. The woman will have to hire some field hands to go look for the horse come next morning. Thunder is quite happy to have the stables and the hay and oats all for himself, too. He is munching away at the fodder while Cahir is busy cleaning his legs and hooves from the mud and combing him down after a long day of riding through the countryside.
When he enters the house, the delicious smell of frying meat is in the air.
"Dinner will soon be ready," the woman says, wiping her hands on the white apron she is wearing above her fresh and mud-free dress. A few blood stains are sprinkling the white fabric, but this is normal when you cook meat, isn't it?
"Why don't you clean up a little while I set the table?" she then asks, glancing critically at Cahir's muddied boots, cloak, pants, hands and face. And the mud stains on the floor boards. "There's a wash stand with warm water, soap and towels for you in the room over there." She points at a door to his right.
"Sorry about the mud," Cahir mumbles, belatedly taking off his dirty boots.
"Not a problem, I'll clean the house before my husband returns anyway. Just leave them there next to the coat rack. Your cloak and swords, too." With an encouraging smile she disappears in the kitchen.
Cahir does as told. No woman in her right mind would want a man to sit down for dinner with her all covered in mud and with two swords strapped to his back, right? He takes his silver knife from his bootleg though and puts it in his belt next to his dagger, just in case. Then he opens the door to the washroom.
The room is narrow and hardly more than three strides deep. The washstand is by the opposite wall. Next to it several candles are burning on a chest of drawers, above it a small, slightly tarnished mirror. There is a fresh towel and a bar of soap, too. Steam is rising from the big earthenware pitcher decorated with a floral design. A colourful woolen rug is covering the floorboards, giving the cramped room a friendly atmosphere.
With long strides, Cahir walks over to the washstand. Or rather he intends to walk over to it. However, halfway through the room, the floorboards suddenly give way and, taken totally by surprise, he tumbles down the hole that has opened up under his feet with a yelp.
A trapdoor. What the bloody fucking hell?