The loud barking of the dogs wakes Cahir up in the middle of the night. Fuck! Immediately on high alert he starts into a sitting position, grabs his sword with his left suppressing a hiss of pain, and gazes into the darkness. The dogs are running toward the other side of the settlement and the woofing sounds - excited and happy? Not at all as if the dogs are about to attack, or defend themselves against a ghoul or other dangerous creature of the night. He relaxes a little. Now he can hear human voices, too. Maybe the dogs' owners have returned? Careful not to make a sound, Cahir scrambles to his feet and melts into the shadow of the stone wall. In the faint light of the moon and the glow of the fires on the horizon, he can make out the dark silhouettes of more than half a dozen humans who are greeted enthusiastically by their four-legged friends. They sit down by the carcass of the horse and start gnawing away at its charred, stinking remains alongside the dogs. Gods, they must be desperately hungry or totally insane to eat the rotting meat. The thought alone is so utterly disgusting, it makes Cahir's stomach roil. At least the peasants are so completely preoccupied with their wretched meal that they have not noticed him yet. As quietly as possible, he sneaks backward and disappears into the darkness of the forest. One of the dogs gives a sharp woof and for a moment Cahir is afraid it might run after him, but the animal does not seem eager to leave its owner, or the rib it is gnawing away at. So, it stays where it is and soon stops its angry barking.
Although dawn is still a few hours away, Cahir gets back onto the track and continues his lonely journey. Thanks to the frequent fireballs illuminating the nightly sky in addition to the full moon and to the shine of the burning villages and forests to the south, he can make out the path well enough. In contrast to the Old Road, there are no potholes here or other hindrances that could cause him to stumble and fall. So, in spite of the near darkness and the lingering headache, he makes steady progress.
Not long after having left the ruins with the horse carcass, Cahir reaches the next smouldering remains of a settlement, this time a seizable village that has been burnt to cinders. A skirmish must have taken place nearby, too, as there is a fresh burial mound directly behind the smoking ruins. By a crossroads at a certain distance beyond the mound a huge oak tree is hung with acorns and other, stranger fruit - human corpses. And underneath the corpses a group of half a dozen stocky, human-sized figures with overlong ape-like arms and big claws. Their nose-less faces with the sharp fangs resemble a skull. The deadly pale, spotted skin of the creatures is shining ghastly white in the moonlight. They reach for the corpses in the tree with their talons, clawing at their rotting bodies and cracking open their bones with their strong jaws. Cahir shudders. Ghouls. The monsters are so close to the road, he cannot possibly stay on the track and pass by them unnoticed. Damn it. There is no way he can fight so many either, not even if he could properly move his right arm and had a perfect silver Witcher sword. Which he cannot and has not. What is even worse, Cahir has no idea which road the Witcher has taken from here. The decent looking highway that is running straight south toward the forts on the Ina but also towards the war, or the forest path that is leading in a more easterly direction from the crossroads? With the ghouls so close, there is no way he can search for tracks. Or even pause to think. Fuck.
As silently as possible, Cahir sneaks into the dense forest to circle around the ghouls, giving them a wide berth. Hopefully, all the ghouls from the area have gathered around the oak tree and are so completely engrossed in their grisly feeding activity that they will not pay attention to the one alive human moving about in the vicinity. Ghouls are neither overly intelligent nor perceptive, right? With the exception of the stench of blood and rotting flesh, of course, which they can smell from miles away. At least that is what Cahir remembers from the stories he has heard about the scavenging monsters. Very scary tales that make your teeth chatter and your blood run cold. Best to get away from here really fast.
After some tense minutes of creeping through the underbrush, his heart in his mouth, Cahir eventually comes across the forest path. Should he follow it? Or move further around and onto the highway? With the wagon and the fugitives the highway would certainly be a lot easier and faster to travel on. On the other hand, the odds of running into one of the two armies, marauders, brigands or squirrels are a lot higher than on the forest track. With the Witcher around, the company would not be much afraid of monsters dwelling in the forest, either. Shit, what the hell should he do?
The difficult decision is suddenly made a lot easier by a piercing, ear-splitting scream coming from the direction of the oak tree. It is followed by a terrifying chorus of loud growling. Fuck, have the ghouls noticed him? Without thinking twice, Cahir takes to his heels down the forest path. He runs as fast as his legs can carry him until he collapses to the ground against a tree trunk, dizzy and sweating and panting heavily. His heart is thumping like mad from the wild flight and fear for his life. Trying to calm his breathing, he listens intently and gazes into the darkness. Are the ghouls following him? Besides the soft rustle of the wind, his own wheezing and the blood pounding in his ears, he cannot hear anything. No movement to be seen either. He closes his eyes and sighs with relief. Looks like fortune is smiling upon him for once. Due to the war, those ghouls have had more than enough corpses to feed on during the last couple of days, he suspects. No need to chase after live prey.
Gingerly, he gets to his feet. His concussion is giving him trouble again. For a moment Cahir feels like he needs to retch and leans heavily against the tree for support. Running seems to be an even worse idea than walking. Well, you do not need to have studied medicine at the academy to understand that. Luckily, the moment passes without it happening. Cahir swallows down the bile that has accumulated in his mouth. His head has stopped spinning. Knowing he will not find sleep again tonight, no matter how tired he is and how much his head hurts, he starts walking. Putting some more miles between himself and the necrophages sounds like an excellent idea, too. He can rest as soon as the night is over. Will not be much longer now. At least his shoulder and arm are better, so much so that Cahir decides to discard the sling. Not knowing whether or not it is the right path to follow, he trudges on.
The stars are just beginning to fade when Cahir suddenly hears another ear-splitting scream. It sounds exactly like the one made by the monsters earlier. The blood-curdling sound is followed by a strange sort of whinny and a desperate cry for help from the direction Cahir is headed in. Is a rider chased by a ghoul along the path and coming directly at him? Bloody hell, exactly what he needs tonight on top of it all! Quickly, Cahir jumps into the bushes by the side of the track for cover, his mind reeling. Aren't ghouls afraid of light? If it is just a single one, he could perhaps save the person by attacking and delaying it until the sun rises? No, not very likely considering that he is just so able to stay upright on his legs and walk. Trying to fight a ghoul for longer than a few minutes in his current state would be suicide. What about fire then, ghouls are affected by it, too, right? Cahir reaches for his belt pouch. Luckily, everything he needs to start a quick fire is in there and dry twigs and branches are more than abundant in the underbrush. Hopefully it will not be too late. From a dry, arm-length branch and a ripped off piece of his cloak - poor quality like the sword, but at the moment this is an unexpected advantage - Cahir fabricates a torch and lights it as swiftly as he can manage. A brief moment later he leaps out of the thicket into the middle of the track just between the rider and the closely following monster, shouting and waving the burning stick. The monster freezes barely more than two paces in front of him. Cahir's heart almost stops at seeing the hideous visage so close to his own face. This specimen is not as pale as the ghouls from earlier that night. It is distinctly bigger and broader, too. Baring its pointed fangs, the creature snarls dangerously. Spit drips from its teeth onto its muscular, bare chest. The stench of rotting cadavers emanating from the monster's maw is so overwhelmingly disgusting, it takes Cahir's breath away, and quite literally so. The monster seems irritated by the fire and enraged. But is it afraid? What if it is not scared at all of the flames? What if it is just some stupid superstition that fire can harm or drive away ghouls? What if this creature is not a ghoul but something else entirely?
Growling deeply in its chest, the monster lunges at the torch with one of its claws. Cahir jumps back and out of reach. As from his experience offence is the best defence, he then charges at it, brandishing the burning stick in the monster's face with his left hand while drawing his sword with his right. The scalloped blade glows bright orange in the light of the flames. Momentarily blinded, the huge creature roars loudly. With a roar of his own, Cahir hits the monster right in the face with his torch and, at the same time, sinks his sword deep into its guts. Another blood-curdling cry, then the creature turns on its heels and disappears into the dark forest, leaving a trail of black blood behind. Cahir falls to his knees, dropping both his sword and the torch. He claps his hands over his painfully ringing ears. His heart thumps like mad from adrenaline and fear. Gods, that was certainly the most frightening fight he has ever had in his life. And the monster might still come back. Cahir knows that you cannot kill a ghoul with steel. Even if this was not a proper ghoul but some other necrophage, it is very unlikely that it would be any different with it. No, it is still alive, Cahir is sure of it. He prays to all the gods that the fire and sword have spoiled its appetite for live meat, at least for a little while longer. The sky is already starting to take on a pinkish hue in the east and necrophages are only active at night, aren't they?
The sound of an animal whinnying makes Cahir turn around with a start. The rider. He is coming back.
"You alright?" the man asks, sounding shaken and worried. Clumsily he dismounts. It is not a horse, Cahir can see it now. A mule. That's why the whinny sounded a bit off. He gives a curt nod and starts to struggle to his feet.
"You don't look too good, mate. Are you hurt? Here, let me help you." The peasant stretches out his hand, but Cahir shakes his head. No, although he still feels a bit jittery with fright, he can manage. And he does. Slowly and with a grunt. He picks up his sword and sheathes it.
"Here, take a sip then if not the hand. That spirit revives anything that's not quite dead yet." The man has uncorked a metal flask and holds it out to Cahir. The smell of alcohol is strong but not unpleasant. Cahir grabs the flask with a trembling hand and takes a hit. The bitter burns down his gullet like fire and tears start to his eyes, but it has a reviving and warming effect, no doubt about that. He takes another pull on the bottle. Wormwood, aniseed and - mandrake? Yes, he recognises the taste. Tastes like home. Like Vicovaro.
"Not bad, the hooch, is it? Bought it off a barber-surgeon that lives not far from here. Funny fellow, looks like a tax collector, but he's harmless. He's a bit crazy, for sure, what with digging around that ancient elven cemetery at night. But distils the best moonshine ever. Says the most potent and aromatic herbs and roots only grow around Fen Carn. It's not far from where we live, me, the wife and our four kids," he prattles on. Then he nods at Cahir encouragingly. "Have another swallow, laddie. All good things come in threes." Cahir does not need to be told twice. After the third gulp, he passes the flask back to the peasant.
"Name's Gunwald," the man introduces himself. "Cheers." He raises the bottle to Cahir, then takes a long swallow himself. The peasant is middle-aged, his greasy dark hair beginning to grey, and he is almost a head shorter than Cahir. When he smiles, dimples appear in his weatherbeaten face. What the fuck was the man doing all alone in the forest by night? Cahir wonders. Well, as talkative as he seems to be, he will surely find out shortly.
"Thought my last hour had come," Gunwald continues, taking another swig from his flask. "Guess I got lucky for once. Haven't found what I was looking for, but haven't found death either, thanks to you." He gives Cahir a grateful smile before passing the hooch to his rescuer again. "You got a name, laddie?" he then asks good-naturedly.
"Cahir, son of Ceallach."
"Never heard those name before, neither yours nor your father's." Gunwald shakes his head slowly. "You aren't from around here, are you? May I ask what brings you to this in the back of beyond place?"
"Shit luck, I suppose," Cahir mutters, downing some more of the moonshine. That barber-surgeon must be a true master of his trade. He feels so much better already, he could almost take on a second ghoul, or whatever it was.
"One man's shit luck's another man's good fortune, then," the peasant says brightly. "Look at me, if not for you, I'd be dead as a doornail now with not a corpse to bury. You, stranger, saved my life by risking your own. I owe you. And more than a few sips of hooch."
"Just forget it. The hooch's better than gold." Cahir takes one more gulp, then gives the bottle back to its owner. It is nearly finished anyway. Moreover, it might not be such a brilliant idea to drink too much of the potent spirit on a painfully empty stomach. He is starting to feel a little lightheaded already.
"No, no way. I always pay my debts, although we don't have much." He frowns. "I'd give you old Birte, the mule, but we need her to pull the cart. It's become too dangerous for my taste all alone in that little hamlet of ours. Me and my family, we're heading down to where the Chotla and the Ina meet, in a day or two. There's a huge refugee camp. We'll be safer there."
"How far's that camp?" Cahir asks, his interest piqued. Perhaps the Witcher and his company are heading there, too? To drop off the fugitive women and children? That's what he would do in any case, and it is in the right direction.
"Not far, half a day's ride. It's just along this path, past my place, then through Fen Carn and from there it's another two miles or so. Even on foot you'd be able to make it there before nightfall." Gunwald points in the direction he has come from, then scratches his head, frowning once again. "Now, mate, about that life debt of mine. Law of surprise? What do you say?"
"How does that work?" Cahir asks sceptically. He has heard of the law of surprise, of course, although it is not practised in Nilfgaard much but seems to be a lot more common in the north. However, there appear to be so many variants, it can be pretty confusing when you are not familiar with the local customs. It could end you up with the first thing that comes to greet you, which, in his case, could easily be the peasant's wife or one of his four children. He'd be lucky if it was just the man's dog or favourite goose or chicken.
"You don't know about the law of surprise? You must come from pretty far away, that's for sure. But don't worry, mate, I won't ask." Gunwald winks at Cahir conspiratorially. Has the man detected his slight southern accent? He is probably assuming that he is a Nilfgaardian deserter, then. Which he is, even though not of his own free will.
"You'll get what I find at home and did not expect," Gunwald begins to explain. "Can be anything, an old, rusty hammer I lost a year ago and my wife found it while packing up our things, or an unexpectedly nice breakfast. Sometimes it's a child." Cahir looks alarmed. "No, no need to worry, lad, the wife's too old and the daughter too young." The peasant grins broadly. "Destiny will find you something nice or useful, or both. I have no idea what, but trust the gods. You did a praiseworthy, brave deed and they're sure to reward you, you'll see. Even if it might just be with a good laugh. I'll throw in the breakfast for free. For you, laddie, look like you haven't had anything decent to chew on for weeks."
The man is not wrong here, Cahir cannot deny it. Perhaps he is not mistaken about the gods and destiny, either? Although destiny has been a total bitch the last couple of years, maybe he should give it a try? What could possibly happen? Even an old, rusty hammer might come in useful on a long, perilous journey. And a nice breakfast would be very welcome indeed.
"Law of surprise it is then, if you insist. Let's hope you're right about destiny and the gods."
And about the breakfast, most of all about the breakfast, Cahir adds in his mind, his mouth starting to water at the mere thought.