It is still raining when Cahir follows the Witcher and his company's tracks out of the forest and onto a highway winding its way between the hills from the south to the north. He looks around cautiously. It is one thing to follow the Witcher through dense forest on tracks hardly visible and rarely frequented, but to tail him in the open on a more or less busy highway is a far more risky thing to do. And not only because the Witcher might spot and finally kill him after all, like he has promised. There is a war going on almost all around them, and any of the parties involved would be happy to have his head. Even the refugees and peasants would, no doubt, gladly see him hang if they noticed his slight Nilfgaardian accent. Well, he better not speak to anybody then and try to be as inconspicuous as possible for a single rider on a horse with Nilfgaardian trappings. Perhaps the constant rain is not such a bad thing after all.

The highway looks exactly like one would expect it to look in the middle of a war-tossed landscape. On the road and in the ditches on its sides there are overturned and gutted wagons, dead horses, scattered bundles, saddlebags and baskets and, among them, the corpses of their erstwhile owners. From their state of beginning decay it is easy to see that the slaughter of the merchant trek, which it obviously was, had not taken place that day, so Cahir rides closer without fear. The chances of the attackers still being in the vicinity are slim, or rather non-existent. He would already have an arrow sticking out of his chest or back or wherever if they were. For the traders had been shot, he can see it from their wounds, and the arrows were removed afterwards. Scoia'tael. Only they need to collect their arrows after the deed, the Nilfgaardian army would not bother.

Cahir gets off his horse. The corpses and their belongings have been ransacked pretty thoroughly already, so the likelihood of coming upon anything useful or edible is virtually zero. However, he needs to find clues as to where the Witcher might have gone. He knows that his intention is to go south, but would he really dare take the road in that direction? It seems like everything to the south is pretty much in Nilfgaardian hands by now. The north does not look much better, though, and it is the opposite direction of where the Witcher wants to go. No, from what Cahir remembers of the maps of the region - and he has studied them very thoroughly before leading the attack on Sodden Hill - the smart thing to do would be to continue east toward Turlough and the hills through forests and wilderness until they reach the Chotla River. The armies would not go there, Cahir is sure of it. They could follow the Chotla south to where it meets the other river - what was its name again? Ida? Ina? - and then further down to the Yaruga. But would the Witcher take this much longer route?

A discarded tarpaulin catches Cahir's attention. Vera Loewenhaupt and Sons. The stout woman with the unnaturally twisted neck and the ripped out earring in the ditch must be the late owner of the business, but where is her wagon? Did the sons survive and make off with it? They would not have left their mother's corpse here for the crows to eat, though, would they? If they existed in the first place, which he doubts. No, the remains of a broken wheel not far from the corpse hint at a different scenario. Somebody has fixed the wagon long after the attack. There are faint tracks of mud on the road that suggest the wagon has been dragged across it very recently, hardly more than half an hour ago, or even less. Otherwise the rain would have washed away the tracks completely by now. There are a few muddy hoof prints, too. Both trails lead to the other side of the road and continue onto a narrow forest path just broad enough for a not too big wagon. A path heading east.

Although Cahir has no clue what the Witcher would want a wagon for and why there are plenty of foot prints next to the hoof ones - most of them made by heavy boots but also some by lighter shoes, women perhaps? - he is almost certain that this is the path the Witcher has chosen. It would definitely be the one he himself would choose. Has the Witcher joined a group of other travellers or fugitives who also seek to avoid the armies? And who have come with provisions and other goods that are more easily transported on a wagon and could be shared with somebody who looks like they know how to wield a sword and a bow? Safety in numbers, it might make sense for a while. Well, he will see if he is right sooner or later. Preferably sooner. Having made up his mind, Cahir mounts his chestnut colt and leaves the highway to follow the wagon tracks leading into yet another forest.

In spite of the dim light between the trees, the wagon track is almost laughably easy to pursue. The path is grassy and not too swampy, but the wheels still leave deep grooves in the rain-wet soil. It must be a hell of a bother to drag a wagon along here, and obviously without a horse or ox to pull it. Either the possessions on the wagon must really be worth it, or they are transporting somebody who is wounded and cannot walk or ride, there is no other explanation for this folly. Unless the people have lost their marbles along the way? The nearer Cahir gets to the group he is tailing, the more he comes to the conclusion that it is the latter possibility. For they are not only hauling a heavy wagon along with them through the wilderness, but they are also singing jauntily at the tops of their voices while they are doing it. A merry tune in the middle of a war! How crazy is this? It is not a song Cahir has ever heard before and definitely not an army one. Above several deep, gnarly basso voices he can make out one singer with a more tenor register, and aren't there the faint sounds of a lute, too? The bard? Then he is on the right track. Excellent. What a strange company the Witcher seems to have ended up with. Well, he does not complain. They are moving so slowly and making so much noise that he will have no trouble at all following them.

It is still raining when dusk falls between the tall trees. Cahir cannot see the tracks anymore in the dim light, however, the thunderous laughter and shouted obscenities that have replaced the singing echo through the woods loud enough to point him in the right direction whenever there is a fork in the road. It is almost too easy to follow this more than strange and very noisy company. With all the racket they are making Cahir does not even have to be careful about not making any himself. The only actual challenge is to stay well behind and out of sight of the sluggish trek. So far they do not seem to have noticed him. Or are they simply ignoring his existence? Suits him well enough.

When it becomes too dark to travel any further, the group set up camp in a clearing. Cahir tethers his chestnut colt to a tree in a safe distance from both the glade and the path. Then, hiding between the dark tree trunks and underbrush, he cautiously moves closer to the camp on foot. He needs to see for himself that it is indeed the Witcher he has been following all day. Besides he is not a little curious about the man's current and so very unusual company. For the last few meters Cahir gets down on his hands and knees and creeps through the wet leaves covering the forest floor on his stomach.

They appear not to be afraid of anything at all here in the woods. Two campfires have been lit in the clearing. Around one, Cahir can see several women who are busy cooking some stew or soup in a big copper cauldron. Children in dirty, ragged clothes are scampering around it playing with sticks and throwing acorns at each other. Fugitives, no doubt, running from the advancing Nilfgaardian army. Nothing special about them, just the regular thing that is to be expected in a war. More collateral damage. Regrettable but unavoidable. Unless you avoid starting a war in the first place. Too late for that, although, by now, Cahir wishes it was otherwise. No, it is the group around the other fire that catches his interest. Dwarves. With beards so long, they keep them tucked into their broad leather belts. They are as loud as ever while they are playing some sort of card game. A green parrot is perched on one dwarf's shoulder, cackling obscenities. Among the dwarves, almost laughing as loud as his much smaller companions, sits non other than the Sandpiper, feathered hat and all. Slightly further away from the fire is Milva, the dryad-like archer. She is seated on a log repairing the fletchings of an arrow. And right next to her the White Wolf, sharpening his sword and glaring morosely at the women and children and the heavily loaded wagon that is standing not far from them. Looks like he is not too happy about the current travelling arrangements, and Cahir can easily imagine why. Without the fugitives and the wagon, just the bard, the archer and the Witcher, they could make it to the Chotla in three days, maybe even less. But together with the others it will take so much longer. Why does he not just leave them behind? Does he feel responsible for the safely and well-being of the women and children? Cahir shakes his head. Seems like this Witcher is very different from what he expected, very, very different.

Reckoning that he would be mostly safe not too far from the company's camp, Cahir soon spreads out his bedroll in a place that appears a tad less wet than the average forest ground and lies down with a soft groan. He still feels a little stiff with all the bruises, but it is not half as bad as it was when he set out to follow the Witcher. Everything is damp or outright soaked with rain, though, which does not help. What is even worse is that he has not had anything to eat all day except for a few blackberries he found along the way. Not that he had much more the day before or any day since he was arrested by the Scoia'tael. Perhaps he should have packed some meat from one of the dead horses on the highway? But as he cannot make a fire without giving himself away, several days old dead horse did not really appeal to him then. No, he is not that desperate yet. He will find something tomorrow.

Cahir wakes up at first light shivering from the cold and damp. And it is not only the weather that is giving him the chills. He had a dream again. Of her, Princess Cirilla. It was not a frightening dream like the one about the desert this time, no, on the contrary. The girl seemed to be happy. She was dancing on a table in a smoky barn next to a young she-elf. He has seen the elf in his dreams before, riding with Ciri in this gang of teenage misfits. The gaudily dressed she-elf shook her long, dark hair, laughing. With her hands on her hips, her face upturned, she tapped the quick, rhythmic staccato with her heels on the heavy oak table and Ciri copied her every move perfectly. The peasants yelled and applauded. The entire barn was shaking from shouting and music. Violines, fiddles, oboe, bagpipes, double bass und drums. The table boomed and rocked, the barn boomed and rocked. Soon the peasants were dancing, too. A young, slim peasant boy had his hand on Ciri's shoulder, the other on her waist, and she was dancing with abandon, filled with desire and lust. Like any normal young girl at a dance. Why then does this dream still fill him with dread? Shouldn't he be glad that Ciri seems to have finally found some happiness after all the horrors she had to endure? However, Cahir cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong, that on that table death was dancing along with the girls. That they need to hurry to save her. From what? He does not know. Neither has he any explanation for why he is having those unsettling dreams. It is not as if he had any feelings for the girl, except for a mountain of guilt. He destroyed her life. He can still not understand why she did not kill him on Thanedd. There must be a reason for all of it. Or are the dreams just some strange sort of punishment? Perhaps he will find out one day.

Wrapping his damp cloak tightly around himself, Cahir gets to his feet. He leans against the trunk of a tree and listens to the sounds of the forest waking up. Surprisingly few birds. They have not left to fly south and spend the colder season in a more clement climate yet? No, probably it is just the rain. Why would the birds hate it less than the humans do? And he definitely does not feel like singing. In contrast to some other individuals. From the direction of the glade Cahir can hear a child wailing. The camp is slowly coming to life, too. One of the dwarves curses colourfully because he cannot find his pants while Jaskier strikes up a merry and pretty dirty song, to the dwarves' delight. Then he hears Milva's enraged voice loudly berating a certain Zoltan Chivay for openly pissing into the fireplace in front of the children and women. Cahir smiles to himself. Those dwarves seem to be an entertaining bunch, indeed.

Not long after, the company strikes camp and gets back onto the forest path. Cahir waits a while, then he walks into the clearing, leading his horse by the reins. Perhaps they have left something edible behind? But no such luck. At least there is plenty of grass for the colt and a little streamlet running by the edge of the glade where he can refill his canteen and wash. Not that washing is really necessary with all the rain, but still, it feels refreshing. Then he mounts and, once more, follows the Witcher and his company through the dense forest.

The pace of the group is almost maddeningly slow. This has one big advantage, though, it leaves Cahir more than enough time to stray from the path in search of berries and nuts. With the mushrooms he is careful, they look quite different from the ones that grow back home in Vicovaro, and, although some smell quite appetising, he would not want to risk poisoning himself by accident. It would be good if he could hunt something, too, but alas, the forest seems to be pitifully empty of animals, the armies and fugitives probably having scared them all away. Or maybe it is the constant rain. Anyway, without being able to shoot a bow or the time to set traps, hunting would hardly work. Once Cahir is lucky and manages to catch a fat trout in one of the small brooklets that crisscross the forest. To not fall hopelessly behind, he eats it raw and unseasoned, which is a bit disgusting and a shame, but at least it is fresh and satiating enough for a while.

As Cahir expected, there are no soldiers in the forest and neither can he spot any direct signs of war during the next couple of days, like smoke or fire or slaughtered humans. However, they appear not to be the only people travelling through the forest. Cahir spots the one or other cold and abandoned campfire and several times he sees the vague outlines of groups of peasants moving through the woods. For a moment he is tempted to approach them and ask for food, however, the fugitives being armed with pitchforks and stakes does not exactly encourage any attempts at making friends, especially not when you are a foreigner belonging to the enemy nation. They would probably shove a pitchfork through his guts first and then inquire why he is not with his army. No, he better steer well clear of them and anybody as well as anything else that is creeping through these forests. He could try to steal from the fugitives, of course, during the night when everybody is asleep. It is not as bad as slaughtering refugees, and he has done that or rather ordered it done, but it seems like it was ages ago in a different life. No, that is not who he is anymore. And neither is he a thief.

The dwarves appear to have less scruples, though. When the large quantity of provisions they have been lugging on their wagon is mostly finished, they send a looting party out during the night. Cahir sees them return at dawn with two big sacks, one filled with fodder for the horses and one with food for the humans and non-humans respectively. His painfully empty stomach growls loudly at seeing what the dwarves produce from their bag for the company's breakfast and he comes close to giving himself up for just a piece of bread. But swallowing down his persistent hunger, he stays hidden between the trees until the others have eaten, packed up their things and left their nightly resting place behind. And this time he is lucky. A good-sized piece of beef jerky is lying not far from where the wagon stood not so many minutes ago. Has maybe one of the children dropped it by accident? Or because they did not like it? Or did somebody leave it on purpose knowing he would come looking for something? Cahir is sure they are aware by now that he has not given up on following them. Both Milva and the Witcher keep looking back from time to time, and the dwarves must also have noticed that he is secretly tracking them. They could easily stop him from doing so, one well-aimed arrow would suffice, but they do not seem to mind that much anymore. Perhaps, if he keeps on following them just long enough, they will eventually let him join after all and against all odds?

Well, until then he just needs to avoid dying of starvation, getting gutted by some angry peasant fugitives, dying from exposure in his sogging wet clothes, or being eaten by the one or other monster lurking in the forest. With a little luck, he might just be able to do that. The beef jerky is a good start.