Cahir takes not only first, but also second and third watch. Geralt needs all the sleep he can get, and the bard and the Witcher look just too cute together to wake them. He can go a night without sleep. The night is quiet, too, only the occasional howling of wolves can be heard from afar. As long as they do not come closer, the predators do not pose a threat. And if one came by, he could easily fight it off with his swords and brands from the little fire he has lit. However, it is not necessary. The animals stay well away, as do all the monsters that might still be lurking in the vicinity.

Dawn comes with a beautiful display of pink and rose. Jaskier and Geralt are still fast asleep in each other's arms. Cahir lets them sleep some more. They have plenty of time. And there are a few things to take care of before they can leave this accursed place behind for good. First of all, he needs to collect some proof for the villagers that the myriapod is dead, for without proof, no coin. The head of the beast will do nicely. Should he take the sliced-off mandible, too? It looks pretty fearsome. Perhaps someone will be willing to pay for it so they can mount it over their fireplace. Or he could take the pair to Kaer Morhen, for Vesemir. The old Witcher likes the odd souvenir once in a while. He has quite an impressive collection already. Moreover, a sample of the flying kite's venom could be interesting for experiments. Vesemir loves to analyse and mix stuff together in the lab. At least one of the myriapod-centipede hybrids should also be preserved in alcohol for further examination. Last but not least, there is the question if Geralt managed to kill all of the monster babies before the kite attacked him. Better to search the area for survivors and end them as long as they are not a threat to anything larger than a rat. He would very much prefer to not have to come back here. Ever.

With a hearty yawn, Cahir gets to his feet. The horses need to be fed and watered, too. He rubs his tired eyes. But first he needs a piss.

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

The sun is already high in the sky when Jaskier opens his eyes.

"Geralt, you awake?" he asks softly.

"Hm."

"How are you doing?"

"Been better. Been worse," the Witcher murmurs. His voice is hoarse, but this is not surprising after yesterday's ordeal.

"Do you think you can get up, dear?" Jaskier asks.

"Do I have to?"

"Yes, unfortunately you do. If you don't want to spend another night sleeping on bare rock at the edge of the world - among rotting monster corpses." Jaskier gazes pointedly at the dead drake not far from them. Flies have started to gather on the gaping wound in its throat. It does not smell yet, but with the rising temperatures Jaskier knows it will not be long before the distinctive, disgusting stink of decay develops. He sits up and stretches like a cat. "And I need a beer, or two or three. And a good meal. And a nice, comfortable bed."

"Hm, sounds like a plan."

"And an excellent one, too," Jaskier beams. "The sooner we get back to the tavern, the better. What do you think, will you be able to ride?"

"I'm not an invalid, Jask."

"You almost died yesterday, you remember that, don't you?"

"I do, but I don't want to."

"Neither do I, not for a long, long while, trust me." Jaskier sighs dramatically. "This was definitely the scariest day in my life. A lot worse than when the firefucker wanted to burn off my fingers or when Filavandrel was about to bash our heads in. Maybe going back to Posada was not such a brilliant idea. Looks like it is a truly dangerous place."

"The ale is good though," Geralt says, sitting up slowly. "And the company."

"Right, the ale." Grinning, Jaskier lends his friend a hand when he struggles to his feet. "Now let's see where the rest of the company is."

They do not have to look for long. Cahir is just emerging from the vegetation by the lakeside with two dead baby monsters in one hand and a blood-dripping sword in the other.

"Geralt, Jaskier, good to see you up and about," he greets his two friends. "I'm almost done. I think those two here were the last of the little buggers that were still alive. Just need a minute to stow them away, then we can leave."

And this is what they do. Leave. Without looking back. Not even once.

Jaskier rides at Geralt's back, his arms wrapped tightly around his friend to make sure that the Witcher stays in the saddle - but also because it feels damn good. Geralt does not complain. Exhausted and shaken from yesterday's events, it is exactly what he needs. Having his oldest and very best friend as close as possible. He could ride like this forever.

Unfortunately, the path has different ideas. Like on their way to the valley of monsters, the three friends have to dismount and climb up and half down the mountain on foot. They take it slowly, with several breaks. Geralt is clearly not in peak form, but he manages admirably considering the severity of his almost encounter with death just the day before. When they are finally able to mount and continue on horseback again, Geralt is so tired that he is close to dropping off in the saddle. However, it does not matter, Jaskier is holding the reins and him, and Geralt knows his friend would never let him fall, so he closes his eyes for a while, safe in the bard's arms.

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

"Geralt, love, wake up. We're there," Jaskier half whispers into his ear. Drowsily, he blinks his eyes open. And indeed, there it is, directly in front of them in the soft evening light, the tavern with the breathtaking architecture. Cahir has already dismounted.

"I'll take care of the horses. You go in," he says. "And don't drink all the beer, Jaskier, leave one for me."

"Better hurry then, I'm dastardly thirsty," Jaskier grins as he gets off Roach. He then gives Geralt a hand when he dismounts. Not that the Witcher could not have done it on his own, but it is nicer like this. After his nap, Geralt feels a lot improved, and hungry and thirsty like a wolf, a real one. He has not had anything to eat since breakfast yesterday, no wonder he feels starved.

The peasants in the tavern throw them curious glances as they enter the tap room. The friends walk up to the bar and Jaskier drops the big, heavy burlap sack he is carrying onto the counter with a grunt.

"Here, your monster," he says, "or rather its head. Don't be shy, have a look, good people of Posada. Don't fear, it's entirely dead. Expertly beheaded by this champion here." Jaskier pats Geralt's shoulder. "And tell the mayor to bring the second instalment of his coin!"

Their usual table in the corner of the room is occupied by two middle-aged men with a big beer tankard in front of each, but one glare from Geralt's amber eyes is enough to make them gather their things and vacate it without a single word. Geralt and Jaskier make themselves comfortable next to each other on the narrow bench.

"Bloody hell, look at the ugly bugger!" the stout innkeeper exclaims after having extricated the myriapod head from the sack. With both his hands he holds it high up in the air for everybody to see. "How much for the beast's noggin, Witcher?" he then asks in a booming tone of voice that carries across the entire room.

"Ah, now we're talking, good man," Jaskier says with a smug grin, his hand on Geralt's thigh. "Let's see. Food and drink as much as we want. Your two best rooms for a couple of nights, unlimited hot baths, an opulent breakfast in bed, more food and drink ..."

"And fodder for the horses. We'll stay for another three nights," Geralt adds, putting his hand on top of Jaskier's. "And now, pour us some ale!"