It is a long story. And not exactly a funny or entertaining one. However, reducing it to the most crucial facts and Milva being a good listener who does not interrupt him even once, Cahir manages to tell his tale within hardly more than ten minutes. Well, it sounds more like a military report most of the time than a tale, but Milva does not mind. She is not much of a talker herself and used to brief reports from her dealings with the Scoia'tael. Moreover, she still feels a little hungover and queasy. Drinking all that Moonshine was probably not the best idea ever.

"Then the coffin was cracked open," Cahir ends his dark tale. "You know the rest."

They are quiet for a moment. A bird is starting to sing in a tree close by. Perhaps it has become used to the two humans hiding in the pit by now. The battle is still raging in the distance.

"You mean they were delivering you to the gallows?" Milva mumbles eventually. "Now I understand some of it, but not everything." She frowns. "Why on Earth, instead of holing up somewhere, are you following the Witcher? That is plain stupid. He's really got it in for you. And he's spared your life twice."

"Three times."

"I saw two of them. Though you weren't the one who beat the shit out of the Witcher on Thanedd, I don't think you ought to get in the way of his sword again. Ever." Milva pauses for a moment, her words hanging heavy in the air. "There's a lot about your feud I don't understand," she goes on, "but you saved me and, although you're from Nilfgaard, you've got an honest face ... So I'll tell you, Cahir, bluntly: when the Witcher talks about the men who took his Ciri to Nilfgaard, he grinds his teeth until sparks fly. And if you spat on him, he would steam."

"I know. Still, I have to follow him. It's complicated."

"Complicated? It's a total mess, if you ask me. Only the devil himself could grasp all this," Milva says, exasperated. "Your fates are all entangled, Cahir, knotted and mixed up. It's too much for my head."

"For mine, too." And it is true. Especially at the moment. Not only is he dog-weary, but that blasted headache has come back with a vengeance. He yawns. "And then there is still this one thing I wanted to tell you," he adds, rubbing his temples, "before you all galloped off. The Witcher, he's heading the wrong way, Milva. Cirilla isn't in Nilfgaard. The kidnappers didn't take her to the Emperor. If it was a kidnap at all."

"What do you mean?"

"It's another long story." Cahir yawns once again, and loudly so. "I'll tell it when we have found the Witcher and the rest of your company."

"Do you reckon it's safe enough if we both sleep at the same time?" Milva asks after having had a good yawn herself. Yawning seems to be quite contagious.

"Hm." Cahir murmurs, hardly able to keep his eyes open any longer. Milva is right, of course, they ought to take turns and she looks ready to drop, too. The knightly thing to do would be to let her sleep first, but he cannot help it. His eyelids close all by themselves and he is fast asleep in an instant.

Milva surrenders to another bout of yawns. Nobody has bothered them so far, so why would any soldiers suddenly come their way? It is very unlikely, isn't it? she reasons. And monsters come out after dark, right? The horses would warn them if somebody - or something - tried to sneak upon them anyway, she is almost sure of it. So, taking Cahir's 'hm' for a yes, she leans closer into the loamy earth making up the edge of their hole and lets her eyes fall shut. Cahir has started to snore softly. A strangely soothing sound. Somehow, it feels safe. He feels safe. Who would have thought?

Almost as quickly as her newly acquired comrade, Milva dozes off.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Cahir wakes up with a start. One of the horses concealed in the alder wood snorts and stamps its hooves. He grabs the hilt of his sword.

"Not yet," Milva murmurs drowsily. While asleep, she has slumped sideways and her head is resting against Cahir's shoulder. It feels nice to have somebody so close after the many days all alone in the forest. He sits still to not disturb her and listens intently. The horse has stopped its angry stomping and everything is calm and peaceful. Dusk is slowly falling. It is getting chilly. Mosquitoes whine annoyingly around their ears. Perhaps that is what was bothering the horse? Some blood-sucking insect?

"It's quiet in the forest," he mutters under his breath. "The armies have gone, the battle is over."

"The slaughter's over, you mean." Milva sits up with a yawn and rubs her eyes.

"Our cavalry ..." No, wrong, not his cavalry anymore. Cahir flushes and clears his throat. "The imperial cavalry attacked the camp. Then troops appeared from the south. I believe it was the Temerian army."

"I don't know much about battles and armies, but I guess you're right." Milva picks a yellowish millipede from her shirt sleeve and sets it down on the blank soil a little further away from them. There are a few ants crawling across their boots and trouser legs, too, but Cahir does not mind. As long as they are tiny and stay out of his ears and face and are not after his blood, he could not care less.

"If the fighting's over," she continues, "we should go back. We should search for the Witcher, Jaskier and the others."

"It would be better to wait until nightfall."

"I don't know. There's something horrible about this place," Milva says softly, tightening the grip on the bow lying in her lap. "It's such a bleak wilderness. It gives me the shivers. What if there are ghouls here or this vampire the peasants were telling stories about? The Witcher said ghouls are attracted to battlefields ..."

"They are," Cahir confirms. Alghouls are, too, and lots of other dangerous creatures. It is a bleak wilderness indeed, especially now in the darkening twilight. "At least we aren't alone," he adds quietly. "It's much more frightening when you're alone."

"How did you get away from the ghouls?" Milva asks, empathising. Just thinking about those creatures gives her the creeps, but imagine coming across one or even several of them with not a soul around to help you ...

"I ran. Faster than a rabbit. Don't think I've ever run this fast in my life. — No, not true," Cahir suddenly corrects himself. "There was that once when I escaped from the execution ..."

"You what? And here I thought I had heard it all. Another long story?"

"Hm." Cahir nods almost imperceptibly. "I'll tell you one day. If the Witcher doesn't kill me first."

"Then I'll have to keep him from doing it, I guess," Milva says with a smile. "I like a good story."

"It was scary as hell."

"Scarier than the ghouls?"

"Definitely," he says darkly. At least with the ghouls there was a chance to get away, something he could do. With the execution there was nothing but wait for the inevitable. Wait and hope he would not shit himself from fear. He'd rather take on a dozen ghouls and alghouls any day - no, any night - before facing another execution.

Lost in their own thoughts, they sit in silence for a while, swatting mosquitoes and listening to the increasing rustle in the bushes. All kinds of nocturnal animals are emerging from their holes and other hide-outs in search of food. Mostly small mammals, like mice, martens and foxes. Still, Milva is right, the sounds are unnerving. It is almost dark now. Time to get going. Cahir rises to his feet with a groan. His arm is giving him trouble again. Perhaps he should not have whipped those peasants so hard. The blisters on his leg don't seem to be getting any better either, on the contrary. Well, at least the hours of rest have helped with the headache. Milva expertly swats another mosquito, then stands up, too.

The horses have grown a bit restless, whether from the noises in the undergrowth or the increasing number of annoying insects is hard to say. It does not make a difference anyway, as they are leaving in a minute. Milva jumps onto her black and Cahir mounts his recovered chestnut colt. Leading the other three horses by their reins, they ride back to where they came from a few hours ago. The banks of the Chotla River.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

They dismount, hide the horses in a thicket of willow bushes and trees and walk closer to the riverbank and the reeds. The black waters of the slowly flowing river gleam in the moonlight.

"There isn't a single fire," Milva whispers, staring at the dark bank beyond the river, "or a living soul there, I reckon. There were more than two hundred refugees in the camp. Has no one got off scot-free?"

"If the imperial troops won, they took them all captive," Cahir whispers back. "If your boys got the upper hand, they took the refugees with them when they moved on."

"What about the Witcher and the others?"

"I don't know. Maybe they went south with the Temerian army and the refugees?" If they survived the first attack and the North won, that is. If Nilfgaard was victorious and the Witcher did not miraculously get away in time somehow, odds are that he and his companions are among the many corpses that must be scattered about the former camp grounds. Cahir does not say it, though. Milva is sure to be aware of the possibility, and it is eery enough as it is so close to a battlefield in the dark. At least it is when you do not have your own army by your side. No, speaking the words would not help but only make their worst fears more palpable.

Cautiously, they move closer to the water's edge. Suddenly, Milva treads on something and springs back, suppressing a scream. A stiff arm covered in leeches is sticking out of the mud, the flesh ghastly pale against the blackness of the wet soil.

"Just a dead body," Cahir mutters, grabbing her hand. "One of ours. Seventh Daerlanian Cavalry Brigade. See the silver scorpion on his sleeve ..."

"By the Gods ..." Milva shudders and tightens the grip on her bow. Her hand is clammy with cold sweat. The sight of the wriggling leeches almost makes her retch. Who knows how many more corpses are floating down the river? How much blood? The dark water is probably teeming with dead bodies, leeches, eels and all kinds of other flesh-eating water creatures. The mere thought of having to cross it gives her the shivers. The strange sound coming from across the river does not help one bit. It sends chills up and down her spine.

"Did you hear that noise? What was it?" she whispers, grabbing Cahir's hand more tightly.

"A wolf."

"Or a ghoul ... Or some other hell spawn. There must be a whole load of dead bodies in the camp ..." She shudders again. Milva is not easily scared and not overly superstitious, but she knows what the howl of a wolf sounds like. She is pretty sure Cahir knows it, too, unless wolves sound differently in the south. This was no wolf, at least not a species of wolf she has ever come across. A werewolf, perhaps? It is a night of a full moon, after all. That's when the creatures transform, isn't it? Or maybe the vampire? Do they make howling sounds? The Witcher would know, but he is not here ...

"A pox on it, I'm not crossing that river at night!" she suddenly exclaims under her breath, stepping even closer to her companion, their shoulders almost touching.

"Fine, we'll wait until dawn." Cahir sounds relieved. Obviously he is not exactly eager to ride through the Chotla and toward the potentially monster-infested battlefield in the dark, either. Very sensible.

The two are just about to return to their horses, when suddenly Cahir tenses up.

"Milva? What's that strange ...?" He cannot finish his sentence as Milva interrupts, her face lighting up with joy.

"Regis?!" she says, stifling an excited shout at the familiar scent of wormwood, sage, coriander and aniseed. "Is that you, Regis?"

"Yes, it's me." Noiselessly, a man emerges from the gloom. A man with grey hair, greying eyebrows and clad in black robes tied around the waist with some kind of apron. Cahir recognises him easily. The strange wizard-person from the camp who snatched the white-hot horseshoe out of the fire with his bare hands. "I was worried about you." The man resembling a tax collector smiles at the archer through pursed lips, then eyes Cahir up suspiciously. "But you're not alone, I see."

"Aye." Milva releases Cahir's hand, noticing he has already drawn his sword with the other. "I'm not alone and he's not alone any more. But that's a long story, as some people would say." She turns to her companion. "You can put back your sword, Cahir, he's a friend." Cahir does as told. If the stranger had wanted to harm them, he could surely have done so before they even noticed him. Somebody who pulls a stunt like the one with the horseshoe has certainly all kinds of other tricks up his sleeve, too. And would not be impressed or frightened away by the sight of one single blade.

"Regis, what about the Witcher? And Jaskier? And the others?" Milva inquires urgently. "Do you know what's happened to them?

"Indeed I do," the mysterious stranger by the name of Regis answers. "Do you have horses?"

"Yes, they're hidden in the willows ..."

"Then let's head southwards, down the Chotla. Without delay. We must reach Armeria before midnight."

"What about the Witcher and the poet?" Milva asks, not satisfied with Regis' cryptic answer. "Are they alive?"

"Yes. But they're in a bit of difficulty."

"What kind of difficulty?"

"It's a long story. However, not for now. Now we must hurry."

Milva and Regis rush toward the horses, Cahir following closely behind. He is not certain if the stranger with the weird, herbaceous scent even wants him to come along, but he has not said anything to explicitly forbid him from doing so, either. So it is probably okay. At least for now, Cahir concludes.

The horses become a little uneasy when Regis approaches and start to snort and whinny softly. Is it his peculiar smell or is something else wrong with the man, Cahir wonders. Horses are often a lot more perceptive of hidden dangers or the supernatural than humans, he is aware of it and has often enough profited from this knowledge. He will keep a wary eye on the stranger, Cahir promises to himself. However, the animals calm down again quickly and the sluggish Pegasus lets Regis mount with no difficulty. Cahir jumps onto his chestnut colt and Milva onto her black and off they ride toward the south. On some kind of rescue mission, it appears. Why the Witcher and his friends would need to be rescued, though, eludes Cahir. If the Witcher is in Armeria, the northern troops must have won. Wouldn't the White Wolf and his companions be safe with the Temerian army? Very mysterious, like this Regis person. Well, he can put up with a little mystery for a while. The important thing is, he is not alone anymore.

(Some of the dialogue is directly taken from Baptism of Fire by Sapkowski)