Eventually, the Witcher's company complete with the Nilfgaardian - or possibly non-Nilfgaardian - not so secretly tracking them reach the Old Road, a level highway paved with slabs of basalt built by elves and dwarves centuries ago and leading from Brugge through Sodden until it terminates in the east of Temeria. A mostly forgotten and neglected road that lost its importance for transport long ago. Unfortunately, and much to the Witcher's chagrin, the Old Road has acquired a new function since last he travelled along it on Witcher business, namely the function of a free quarry for whoever needs building material. Hence, the road is riddled with potholes, more often than not of the seize of veritable craters. Navigating the wagon around these numerous gaps in the paving is almost a physical impossibility. Its wheels become stuck frequently, and although Cahir would not have thought it possible, the pace of the march drops even more. The fact that the Old Road runs straight ahead with no cover at all is another big disadvantage. Not for the Witcher and the dwarves, naturally, but for him. By now, everybody knows that he is following them, true, but he cannot simply ride at the rear of the group in plain sight, can he? This would surely provoke some reaction from the Witcher, and most probably not an overly friendly one. Leaves two options. Either he tries to make his way through the dense and pathless forest and thicket lying to both sides of the highway, or he has to take the chance and leave a greater distance between himself and the sluggish trek. Well, he is pretty sure he knows where the Witcher is going. Taking it slowly and staying further behind appears to be less risky in comparison to what horrors might lurk about in the wilderness. Cahir has not forgotten his almost fatal run-in with the stalk-eyed log creature, no. The hole in his trouser leg and the not yet completely healed and still itching blisters on his thigh are a steady reminder of this nightmarish and all too close encounter. So, he decides to give the company a big headstart. He can use the idle time to go fishing in the brooklet he spotted by the forest track not long ago. Which he does, and with success. Having plenty of time Cahir even starts a small campfire and properly roasts the two graylings on a spit. Even if the Witcher spots the thin smoke of his fire rising from the forest, he doubts that the man will turn around and ride back just to kill the perceived enemy.
The fish are not very big, but they are a real treat and, for once, Cahir feels almost sated, a rare sensation these days. His chestnut colt has used the welcome long break to eat his share of grass and drink abundantly from the forest brook where the fish came from. So, looks like they are ready to continue on their self-imposed mission, or rather Cahir's self-imposed mission as the horse has not had much of a say on the matter. Without a wagon to drag along or women and children to take care of, Cahir rides along the Old Road at a good pace, the holes not being much of a handicap for the colt. The condition of the road becomes worse and worse, though, and he begins to wonder how on earth the dwarves manage to weave their way between the huge, cavernous potholes without the wagon becoming irreversibly stuck or shattering. They will have to abandon it, and soon if the road does not get better. Which it does not, on the contrary. It is even starting to become difficult for the lone rider to navigate his horse through the labyrinth of craters. Cahir has to dismount in places and lead the chestnut by the reins, so bad has the road become. Well, what road? It is more a string of holes by now than anything even remotely resembling a highway. The dwarves cannot possibly have made it this far with the wagon unless it has suddenly sprouted wings. No, not having left the wagon behind, they must have departed from the highway somewhere. And he has missed it. Fuck.
Dusk is slowly falling and Cahir has to be careful not only to not overlook any tracks diverging from the highway in a more southerly direction, but also to not land his horse at the bottom of a crater with a broken leg or two. Damn it, he should not have taken the time to roast his fish. If the dwarves have left the Old Road right at the beginning, they might be many miles ahead of him by now. Convinced they would stick to the highway as long as possible, he did not even pay attention to possible alternatives. How stupid. There might have been several, who knows?
Eventually, he discovers a path heading from the Old Road into a south-easterly direction. It is worn down and compacted by heavy wagons, presumably wagons used to transport the pillaged stones from the highway to one of the forts on the Ina, Fort Armeria perhaps, or Fort Carcano. This looks promising. The dwarves would have no difficulty hauling their wagon along this track, and for them going to one of the forts might be the best option. They could drop off the fugitive women and children there and then travel on toward the Mahakam Mountains or wherever they are headed. And the Witcher could go south from there. It is too dark already and the surface of the path too hard and dry after several days without rain to spot any fresh tracks. However, this is his best shot at finding the Witcher, right? So, Cahir steers his horse off the Old Road and onto the path leading into, who would have guessed, yet another forest.
Although not sure at all if this new route will bring him closer to the Witcher and his company, it does bring Cahir closer to the war once again. Hoping he might happen on a sign of the company he is tracking or, even better, hear the dwarves' loud singing or swearing, he rides on until the first stars appear in the sky and it becomes too dangerous for his horse to go on in the dark. Nothing so far. Damn, he will have to spend the night all alone in the forest not knowing whether or not he is anywhere near the Witcher or if they have taken an entirely different route. And worse still, all alone with the potentially dangerous creatures populating the forest. Not daring to fall completely asleep, Cahir sits down by the tree he has tethered his horse to and looks up into the sky, his sword close at hand in case he needs to defend himself against whatever monster might be interested in eating him. Perhaps he has grown a bit paranoid and there are no monsters at all in this forest, but you never know, do you? After all, any inconspicuous looking log might grow stalk eyes and venomous mandibles and, in the blink of an eye, attack you.
More and more stars appear in the nightly sky. If it was not so scary out here all on his own, it could be beautiful, peaceful. Well, it soon turns out even that is an illusion. There is nothing peaceful about this night, at least not further south. A great light flares up in the sky. Cahir knows what it is. A trebuchet. Fired with magic. Like the one they used in Sodden. Perhaps one of the forts on the Ina is under attack? It is still far away, but following this track's southerly direction does not sound like too good an idea, not at all. Several more balls of fire light up the sky. Then darkness falls again. Cahir drifts in and out of a light slumber. Once during the night he believes he can see a pair of huge, pale eyes looking at him from the other side of the track, however, it is quickly gone. He might have dreamed it. The chestnut colt is calm enough, he would show signs of nervousness if there was a monster creeping around in the underbrush, wouldn't he? When Cahir finally falls asleep, dawn is almost upon them.
It is far later than he intended it to be when he wakes up again, stiff from the uncomfortable half-sitting position and not well-rested at all. Cannot be helped. He stands up with a grown, untethers his horse and jumps into the saddle. He needs to know if he is on the right track as fast as possible. If he is, the Witcher and the dwarves cannot be that far ahead of him, can they? But what if he is not? Then he is truly fucked. As he rides along the hard path, he gazes around to find any evidence of the company having travelled on it, too. However, all he sees are trees and ever more trees. Columns of smoke are marking the horizon to the south and east. Almost ready to give up, turn his horse around and ride back to the Old Road, Cahir suddenly sees something bright green peeking out between tufts of grass on the edge of the path. He dismounts and picks it up. A feather, like he suspected. Zoltan Chivay's parrot? There are no birds living in these forests that have a similarly bright plumage, right? Although Cahir is not as versed in the fauna of the north as in its geography, he is almost certain now that he is on the right track. With a slight smile, he pockets the feather. If he ever gets the chance to do so, he will have to remember to thank the flashy, talkative bird.
His optimism returned, he rides on. He is not disappointed. After no more than an hour, Cahir hears the familiar 'oom-pah, oom-pah, oom-pah-pah' of the dwarves favourite song. He breathes a heartfelt sigh of relief, finally relaxing. Not lost after all.
The next two days Cahir makes sure he always stays out of sight but well within earshot of the company while they are slowly getting closer and closer to the war. Or the war to them. No matter which way around, the Witcher's company seems to be running low on food again. No leftovers for a mostly - if not entirely - unwanted pursuer. Woken up early by the persistent, angry growl of his empty stomach, Cahir reluctantly decides to try his luck fishing once more. And no, he will not make the same stupid mistake to fry the fish if he catches one. He will be as quick as possible about it so he will not, under no circumstances, fall too much behind. If he is lucky, he might even be back before the group strike camp.
Unfortunately it turns out being quick about it is easier said than done. There is a streamlet not too far off the track, but it is so small, if there are any fish at all in it, they can hardly be bigger than a pinkie finger. Not worth the bother of catching them, no. Cahir has to follow it downstream for a while until it becomes broader and has a more diverse stream bed with deeper, calmer areas between the shallow, fast flowing ones. He dismounts and, causing as little commotion as possible, approaches the brook. Bingo, he spots several good-sized brown trout in one of those deeper zones. He pushes up the sleeves of his shirt, then lies down in the grass on his belly and slowly extends his arms toward the fish. If he is swift enough, he should be able to catch one in his hands. It has worked before, why shouldn't it now?
It does work. At first try. Cahir grabs the wriggly, slippery fish tightly with both his hands so it cannot get away and tosses it onto the bank. The fish thrashes around struggling for air. Cahir quickly ends it by cutting off its head with his knife. That was easy. There should be more than enough time to catch another one. However, this second one requires several attempts until Cahir is finally successful. To not lose more precious minutes, he wraps both fish into a cloth and stuffs them into his saddle bag before mounting his chestnut colt. High time to get back to the camp. The Witcher's company will probably be well on their way by now.
Cahir spurs his horse. It does not take long and he is back on the wagon track. But something feels wrong. For a fleeting moment he has the disconcerting impression that somebody - or something - is watching him. He reins in his horse, draws his sword and gazes around. Nothing there. Must be his paranoia playing tricks on him again. He is just about to sheath his sword when suddenly three men jump out of the bushes by the road, screaming and brandishing heavy, iron-studded clubs in their hands. Brigands. An ambush. Fuck.
Spooked by the racket, the chestnut colt rears high up into the air, then back kicks and bolts. Cahir, no less surprised than his horse, is thrown off and lands ungently on the hard surface of the track. At least he still has his sword in hand. The brigands circle him. Why though, eludes Cahir as his only possession of any worth has just run off at high speed. Perhaps they just want a fight? Well, they can have one.
He does not wait for the brigands to attack, no, that is not his style. Quick as lightning he turns to the right and lunges at the burly bandit coming at him from that side. The man cries out in agony as the keen Nilfgaardian blade cuts into his thigh. He does not fall, though, but raises his club. Cahir evades the blow and slices the man's throat open with a swift stroke of his sword. Blood spouts from the brigand's carotid artery speckling Cahir's face with a fine spray of scarlet. Then, the other two bandits are upon him. They are both tall and broadly-built and look like they have been in plenty of fights before. A fierce and deadly struggle ensues. By a hair's breadth, Cahir manages to dodge a potentially lethal blow to his head. Instead it connects with his left shoulder. He groans, then strikes at the owner of the club who swiftly jumps out of the range of the deadly blade. Before Cahir can aim another blow at the man with the shaggy, grey-tinged black beard, his much younger, equally bearded comrade attacks from the side. The other brigand joins him with a grim laugh. Are they father and son? Judging by their looks and the way they fight together in unison it seems likely. Cahir has to dodge several vicious blows from the pair before he finally manages to sink his sword into the younger bandit's guts. The man cries out in pain and terror and falls to his knees, trying to staunch the gush of blood with both his hands after Cahir has yanked his sword out of the brigand's abdomen.
"No!" roars the last bandit standing, his face contorted in a grimace of hate and anguish. "You'll pay for that, bastard!" He leaps at Cahir, swinging his weapon, the pointy metal studs protruding from its dark wood gleaming in the morning sun. Cahir just so avoids a hit to his head but is struck in the arm near the elbow, this time the right one. His sword clatters to the ground and he stumbles backward, heaving a moan of agony.
"Got you!" the brigand jeers, then attacks again. With his left hand, Cahir fumbles for the dagger in his belt while jumping to the side just in time to not have his head bashed in by another heavy blow of the club. With a thud the deadly weapon hits the ground instead, throwing its owner off balance for a moment. Just long enough for Cahir to grip his dagger tightly. The two men stare at each other. Both are panting heavily. As the brigand once more swings his club at Cahir, he quickly ducks away under the man's arm and stabs him between the ribs. The bandit gives a roar of pain, then brings down his club once more. It catches Cahir in the side of the head the very same moment he stabs the brigand through the heart. Both men fall to the ground in a heap. Dark blood pools on the hard, compacted soil of the forest track.
Not so very far away, a horse whinnies. A riderless chestnut colt, its green saddlecloth embroidered with Nilfgaardian symbols and speckled with blood. Hard to say whether old or fresh blood. It whinnies again as it overtakes a mixed column of astonished travellers. Then it slows down. It only takes a few friendly words and a hand full of oats to bait the good-natured young animal into coming closer. The Witcher grabs its reins easily. Looks like one of their problems has just been taken care of.