He feels better when he comes to, fortunately. His leg still hurts but Cahir does not feel like he has been fatally poisoned anymore. Perhaps the greenish spit needs to be directly injected into the bloodstream for the full effect? Maybe a higher amount of the venom is necessary to kill a human than just one drop? Or it is not supposed to kill but just to render the victim unconscious for a while so the creature can slay and eat its prey at its own leisure? No matter what, as he is still alive and breathing, he better get a move on before the stalk-eyed monster decides to come back. The Witcher and his company are long gone, too, two, three hours at least judging by the position of the sun. If he does not catch up with them before nightfall, he might lose them for good. Plus Cahir is definitely not eager to spend the night too far away from people now that he knows what creatures hide in the forest. Still a bit shaky, he mounts his chestnut colt and, once more, follows the deep impressions of the wagon wheels in the soft grass of the forest track.
It is close to dusk when he can hear the merry singing of the dwarves and, interspersed with it, the loud screeching of colourful expletives from Zoltan Chivay's green parrot. What welcome sounds. Cahir sighs with relief, then reins in his horse. He must not get too close.
When the company makes camp in the evening, Cahir spreads out his bedroll as near to it as he dares. How he wishes he could sit by the fire with the motley crew, share their meal, listen to their conversations. He can hear a little of what they are saying as a gentle but steady wind carries the words across the clearing. It appears they are talking about weapons and how to make the best steel for a sharp blade. Zoltan Chivay takes his from its sheath and shows it around, obviously more than proud of it. The Witcher has an excellent sword, too, Cahir has seen it with his own eyes, but he seems impressed by the dwarf's weapon. His own blade is probably pretty shitty in comparison, just a regular Nilfgaardian army sword. They look quite impressive with the scalloped spine and they do well enough against other regular army issue swords, but in comparison to the blade Princess Cirilla used on Thanedd or to the Witcher's, they are hardly more than metal trash. Lucky the Witcher has not pointed his blade at him in a while ...
This night, it takes unusually long for Cahir to find sleep, although, for the first time in awfully many days, he does not feel wet and cold. He can even spot a few stars between the tree tops. The dwarves are still playing cards. They do not seem to need as much sleep as humans do. When, eventually, he does fall asleep, he dreams of monsters. First of the eight-legged log monster that almost had him for lunch, no surprise here. Then of even worse-looking monsters. One with so many legs it resembles an overgrown centipede. It chases Princess Cirilla down a rocky ravine with a waterfall. A flying, dragon-like creature is next. It is so bizarre it cannot possibly come from this world, can it? However, the most frightening monster is the huge tree creature that attacks Cirilla with its roots and branches. Do monsters like these really exist? Or is it just his imagination? If they exist, hopefully not anywhere in this forest. The stalk-eyed creature of the previous day was more than enough already, no need for giant centipedes and murderous walking trees, no, definitely not. He has had his fill of monsters for the next couple of months. No, years. Decades ...
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
The next day brings a surprise, whether a welcome or less welcome one is hard to say at first. The company happen upon signs of human habitation, more exactly on neatly stacked cord of firewood by the track. And indeed, there is a settlement, a small hamlet of three cottages, a barn and several huts in the middle of a clearing. Smoke is rising from one of the cottages. The dwarves seem eager to check out the place, maybe to barter for more provisions. With the children and women to feed, they must be running low on food again, Cahir suspects. Hardly as low as he with his non-existing provisions, but still. He follows them in a distance.
However, something must be wrong with the place. After a short, sturdy young girl with long plaits rushes out of one of the cottages shouting and waving her arms, the two dwarves who went up to said cottage come running back to the others as if the devil was after them. Strange. Dwarves are usually not easily spooked. For a moment the dwarves and the Witcher and his friends seem to discuss the situation. Cahir cautiously moves around the glade to get a better picture of what is going on. Shit, the smell wafting over from behind one of the huts does not bode well. The stink of rotting corpses. Some kind of plague killing off the villagers? He better not touch anything, then.
Suddenly, a group of riders come galloping into the clearing from a gap in the trees not far from where he is standing hidden in the undergrowth. They whistle and whoop like they are drunk or high on fisstech. Judging by the lack of uniforms and the randomly assembled weapons not regular army but volunteers, or marauders. Cahir counts thirteen. And they are definitely looking for trouble. Well, on Thanedd he has watched the Witcher cut down his entire squad of Scoia'tael within a few minutes. If these men get into a fight with the White Wolf, none of them will make it out alive, Cahir is certain of it.
It does not take long and they do get into a fight. Or, more exactly, the Witcher gets into a fight with them. To stop the human monsters raping the girl with the long plaits. A pretty short-lived and one-sided fight, too. Milva shoots two of the soldiers dead within mere seconds, then the Witcher is among them with Zoltan Chivay's blade. It dances and sings while slashing through the air and into human flesh. A magnificent sword indeed. The marauders stand no chance, like Cahir expected. Some do not even have the time to draw up their breeches and close their belts. Hardly more than two minutes later, they all are slaughtered except for three who have mounted their horses and are about to ride off in a wild gallop. The first of the three does not get far before he falls, hit by one of Milva's arrows. Same with the second one, only he is struck in the centre of his back by an axe curtesy of Zoltan Chivay. The very last marauder speeds toward the gap in the trees, his body pressed tight to his horse's neck. Milva loses another arrow. Despite the great distance, she hits her target. An excellent shot. The fleeing man lurches sideways out of the saddle, the feathered shaft protruding from a shoulder, but he does not fall. He straightens up and urges his horse into a faster gallop, convinced he is out of his enemies' reach. Well, he is in for a surprise.
Cahir jumps onto his horse, draws his sword and spurs the chestnut colt. The marauder will soon disappear between the trees and be gone, possibly to get more of his friends and take revenge. He cannot let that happen even if the Witcher will then know for sure that the hated black knight is still pursuing them. And where he is, too. But hiding is not an option, no. Maybe the White Wolf will finally see that he is not their enemy anymore? That he truly wants to help?
The marauder's horse neighs and swerves in a panic when it sees the chestnut colt gallop at it from between the trees. Steering his mount so it runs alongside the other animal, Cahir lets go of the reins trusting his steed to find his way through the trees. He lunges at the marauder with his sword. Taken totally by surprise, the man has no chance to defend himself as Cahir sinks his blade into his guts. The marauder gives a dreadful cry, then he falls off his mount. The horse bolts. Cahir lets it go. The horse did not do anything. He takes back control of the reins, makes his chestnut colt slow down and dismounts. Milva's arrow is still sticking out of the dying man's shoulder. She might want it back. Perhaps there will be an opportunity for him to return it one day. Before Cahir rips the arrow out of the man's shoulder, he stabs him through the heart to make sure that he is thoroughly dead. He wipes the arrow's tip in the grass to clean off the worst of the blood, then puts it in his saddle bag before leading the colt back toward the clearing. The Witcher and his company are just leaving, the White Wolf sporting a shiny, brand new pair of boots. They take one of the marauders' horses, too, probably to slaughter it for the meat. There is nothing wrong with doing it, they need to eat. And why eat cow and pig meat without qualms of any sort but shy away from eating dogs or horses? Animal is animal after all, either you eat all of them or none. But still, slaughtering a horse to eat it somehow and against all logic feels worse, a lot worse.
Come next morning and although Cahir feels pretty bad about it, he does eat the big chunk of cold horse meat that he finds wrapped in a piece of cloth in the place where the wagon was. This time he is sure that it has not been left behind by accident.