Fuck is all Cahir can think before his stomach turns and he dry-retches violently. Trying to get up was not a great idea, no. Good he did not eat the fish. The thought alone makes his stomach throw another somersault. He takes a deep breath, then slowly opens his eyes and, with as little movement as possible, turns his pounding head upward. Shit. The blue sky is tinged with the orange glow of the setting sun. Dusk is falling. And he is lying prone in the middle of a lonely forest track between three dead brigands. With a hell of a headache. And without his horse. Damn it. His memory is a bit hazy about the details, but they ambushed him, that is what happened, right? In the morning. He must have been out for hours. The Witcher and his company will be long gone. And without his horse there is not a snowball's chance in hell that he can catch up with them any time soon. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Perhaps the chestnut colt has come back? It is not impossible, they have become kind of friends over the course their journey together, haven't they? Gingerly, Cahir tries to raise himself from the ground to look around. He moves his right arm to support his weight. Another not great idea. He draws in a sharp breath between gritted teeth, almost blacking out again from the jolt of pain shooting up his forearm all the way to his shoulder. Damn it, Cahir curses under his breath. Hopefully just badly bruised, not broken. If the ulna or radius, or both, are fractured, he is thoroughly fucked. Even with the help of a healer, it would take weeks for such a fracture to mend, and it is his sword arm, too. Without a healer - and where would one possibly find anybody versed in the craft of fixing bones here in the middle of nowhere in a war-ravaged land? - it could mean permanent damage, even the loss of the limb, or death from infection.
So, he got hit in the arm and the head. Anything else? Cahir's legs feel alright as does his torso except for his left shoulder. It hurts, but he can move the arm and the joint. Not shattered or dislocated then. Using this arm to prop himself up, he finally manages to sit. He has to close his eyes for a moment as his head is spinning violently from the change of position. A concussion? Very probable. With his good hand Cahir touches the side of his head. There is a big lump right above his left ear and his hair is matted with dried blood. No wonder he feels so shitty. He heaves a groan, then opens his eyes again. The world around him, which mostly consists of the darkening forest with the narrow, bare wagon track running straight through it, is a bit blurry, but it has stopped spinning. He gazes around. No horse in sight, fuck. Just the dead bodies of the brigands. He needs to get away from those corpses before it becomes completely dark. Who knows, there might be necrophages around here or other creatures feeding on the dead that come out at night. They might not be too particular with their food and snack on someone who is not entirely dead, too. Ghouls do that, don't they? The thought gives Cahir the chills. He needs his sword and dagger. Even though he will probably not stand a chance against those monsters incapacitated as he is, and especially not if they come in groups which they usually do, holding a weapon in his hand he would at least not feel quite as exposed and at the monsters' mercy. Mercy they would surely not have, and why would they?
The dagger is still embedded in the older brigand's chest. The man is lying right next to him, dead eyes staring into the sky. With his left, Cahir pulls it out, wipes it on the man's blood-soaked shirt and tucks it into his belt. His sword is not far, either. The hilt peeks out from under the brigant's legs. He leans forward with a groan and reaches for it. Got it. The blade is covered in dried bandit blood. Never mind, he can clean it later. Now he needs to get out of here. But first his arm. Steeling himself against more pain to come, he carefully bends it, then tries to turn his hand. Although painful as hell, it works better than expected. The elbow joint is alright then and the bones cannot be displaced. If there is a fracture at all, then not a complete one. Maybe a few days in a sling will be enough? With the help of his dagger Cahir half cuts, half rips off a broad strip of fabric from the brigand's dark green cloak, then fashions a sling from it. Not an easy task with only one hand, but with the help of his teeth, he manages.
Using his sword for support, Cahir pushes himself to his feet with another groan. For a brief moment he feels like blacking out again and has to lean heavily onto his blade, but luckily it does not happen. His vision clears and he looks around. Everything seems quiet and peaceful. No ghouls - yet. Intending to put as much distance between himself and the corpses as possible, he starts to march along the track toward the south. Well, it is more stumbling than marching, but he stays on his feet until long after the stars and the full moon have come out, providing a faint silver light to guide him on for a little while longer. Then, totally exhausted, he sinks down on the forest ground by a tree. The ache in his head is killing him and he feels nauseous and faint, but at least as long as he does not move neither his left shoulder nor his right arm, this is the only significant source of pain. It will get better after some hours of rest. It has to. All in all, he was lucky. He is alive and mostly in one piece. The injuries will heal by themselves and if he somehow manages to acquire a new mount, he will be able to catch up with the Witcher eventually. He knows where the monster hunter is headed. Briefly Cahir wonders whether the Witcher and his company have noticed that their unusual rearguard has gone missing. Well, even if they have, they will hardly care. If he gets himself killed by brigands or devoured by ghouls, one problem less for them. They will not move out of their way and come back to search for him, no, that is for sure. Why would they? He will have to fend for himself as best as he can. Clutching his sword more tightly with his left, he glances around one last time. No monsters to be seen, neither of the human nor of the non-human kind. Good. Perhaps he is lucky and it will stay like this. Cahir's eyes fall shut and within seconds, he drops off into an exhausted, fitful sleep.
He is lucky. Although the smell of blood attracts some curious creatures that come by during the night to inspect the source of the scent, it is only a fox and, a little later, a marten. Their eyes shine eerily in the light of the moon while they make sniffing noises, but they soon disappear between the bushes again. No wolves or ghouls or anything that would pose an actual danger. Cahir breathes a sigh of relief, relaxes the hand around the sword hilt a bit and closes his eyes. He is still dead tired, but sleep keeps eluding him for the rest of the night.
At first light, he heaves himself up again with a grunt. The birds are singing with the promise of yet another sunny, rain-free day. A light whiff of burnt wood is in the air. Cahir gazes into the sky. Ribbons of smoke are rising into its cloudless, pinkish blue. The war. Not that far away anymore. Is it a good or a bad thing? No idea. His head is aching too much to think. But less so than the evening before, which is definitely good. He will be alright, at least until nightfall. Now he better move on. But first he should find some water. He is terribly thirsty and his canteen, of course, is gone along with his horse. Cahir detaches himself from the supporting tree trunk and starts to walk.
Luckily, after the many days of rain, it is not hard to find enough water to quench his thirst, wash away the blood from his face and hair and cool both his shoulder and his arm. His shoulder he cannot see, but it is probably black and blue where it got hit by the club. He pushes up his shirt sleeve to inspect his forearm. It is badly swollen below the elbow and sporting a big reddish bruise. If anybody came to ambush him today, they would have an easy job of it, battered as he is. Even an elderly lady with a pitchfork could probably do the job if she wanted to. So, let's hope he does not meet one. Or anybody else unless they are a fairy godmother granting him three wishes. Well, what would he wish for then? A nice breakfast, his chestnut colt and a headache potion? Or, perhaps, go for something bolder? That, beginning with the invasion of Cintra, the last couple of years had never happened? That Emhyr var Emreis would be satisfied with ruling over the south? No need for war and slaughter. Princess Cirilla would, eventually, marry some northern prince and happily rule over Cintra by his side with numerous princesses and princelings at her feet. And he would stay the hell out of anything even remotely connected to wars and politics. He would live a very quiet, peaceful and totally unremarkable life in Vicovaro growing wine and breeding horses. Probably married to one of his many cousins and with a half dozen children running through the vineyard on their stick horses. Cahir sighs. A nice dream, right. How foolish to ever have wanted something more. He takes a last gulp of water from his cupped hand and climbs to his feet. How unfortunate that he has long lost his belief in the existence of the fairy godmother. Or any fairies at all.
He does not see any living beings all day, except for the occasional bird flying by high up in the sky. It is probably a good thing, too, nobody to attack him while he is not exactly fighting fit. However, it feels awfully lonely. And the more so now that dusk is falling once again. Has he come any closer to the Witcher and his company? Probably not. He had to take several breaks to rest for a while because he was feeling dizzy again, his vision blurring. Any medic would, no doubt, advise him to stay put and not move for two or three days. But he cannot do that. At least he is pretty certain that the distance between the Witcher and him has not become much bigger thanks to the wagon and women and children. Unless the Witcher has decided to abandon them after all. Not impossible, but, by now, Cahir is quite confident that he would not do that. They must be about a days march ahead of him, more or less. On foot it will take several days to catch up, in the current tempo even longer. No, he needs to find himself a horse. But where?
Definitely not in the remains of the little settlement he happens upon by sundown. No, no horses here, at least not alive ones. The buildings are all burnt out, the last embers of the wooden beams still glowing in the quickly falling darkness. The partly charred, partly eaten, bloated carcass of a very dead horse lies alongside the smouldering timbers. Several dogs are gnawing the flesh from its ribs. They bark at him, baring their fangs. With a few well-aimed stones, Cahir could perhaps drive them away and get some of the horse meat himself, however, the cadaver not only looks like it is several days old and well on the way of decaying, but also gives off a repulsive stink that almost makes his stomach turn. Besides, thanks to his concussion, he does not feel that hungry for once. With the dogs around, it might not be such a bad idea to stay here for the night, though. It is not exactly an inviting ambience with the smoke and stench of rot, but he might be somewhat safe from monsters. Safer than alone out in the forest in any case. The dogs are sure to bark and wake him up in the process if anything or anybody comes too close, right? There is a little strip of grass next to a half crumbled stone wall that does not look too badly singed. It should be far enough from the dogs and the carcass, too, so they will not feel threatened and attack him - hopefully. And if they do, he still has his sword. Even if he is not as good with his left as with his right, he should be able to keep the mutts at bay. He could walk on for a while, too, it is not that late yet, but the chances of finding a better place to rest are slim, and he feels pretty knackered and ready to drop. Better to stop now and catch an early start. His mind made up, Cahir carefully approaches the smouldering ruins. The dogs keep on barking for a while, but they stay glued to the dead horse and do not seem to mind the man who is lying down on the only grassy patch with a grunt. Soon he is fast asleep.