The further along they went, the worse it got. Zoltan’s comparison to the donut and the jam turned out to be increasingly less relevant – the road looked like a yeast cake, which had been laboriously gouged of all its raisins and almonds. It seemed that they approached the inevitable moment when the cart would break down or become stuck in a hole for good. They were saved, however, by something that had destroyed the old road. They encountered a paved path running to the south that had been opened by the heavy carts carrying the timber from the forests. Zoltan rejoiced, because according to him the path led to one of the forts on the river Ina. He hoped to meet the army already there. The dwarf firmly believed that, as in the previous war just behind the Ina, the army at Sodden would launch a devastating counter-attack from the Northern Kingdoms, after which the remnants of the broken and miserable Nilfgaard army would cross back over the Yaruga.
And indeed, changing the direction of their journey once again brought the war in sight. At night the sky glowed bright red in front of them, during the day columns of smoke lined the horizon. Since they could not be sure who was beating and burning and who was beaten and burned, they advanced cautiously, and sent Percival Schuttenbach ahead to investigate.
One morning they experienced a surprise: they found a riderless horse, a chestnut stallion. Its green saddle had the embroidery of Nilfgaard and was covered in dark blood stains. It was impossible to know whether it was the blood of the slain rider or whether it was shed later when the horse had a new owner.
‘Well the problem is ended.’ Milva said, looking at Geralt. ‘If there was a problem.’
‘The real problem is that we do not know who the rider was, who was thrown from the saddle.’ Zoltan murmured. ‘And that they do not follow in our tracks or those of our strange rear guard.’
‘He is a Nilfgaardian.’ Geralt clenched his teeth. ‘His accent was barely noticeable, but some refugees hiding in the woods, may have recognized…’
Milva looked down.
‘I should have killed him then, witcher.’ She said quietly. ‘He would have had a lighter death.’
‘He escaped from the coffin,’ Dandelion nodded, looking at Geralt meaningfully, ‘just to rot in a ditch.’
Thus was pronounced the epitaph to Cahir, the son of Ceallach, the Nilfgaardian who emerged from a coffin, who claimed that he was not Nilfgaardian. They spoke about him no more. Geralt - despite repeated threats – decided to keep the chestnut and threw Zoltan Chivay into the saddle. Although the dwarf’s legs were not long enough to reach the stirrups, the stallion was obedient and quiet and he rode on him quiet comfortably.
At night, the horizon still shone red and during the day the smoke rose in ribbons into the sky, dirtying the blue. Soon they came across burned buildings; the fire still crawled over the ridges and charred beams. Next to the ruins sat eight people and five dogs. They were all devouring the carcass of a partly charred horse. At the sight of the armed dwarves, they abandoned their feast in a panic. Only one man and a dog remained, neither of which showed any terror, they continued to tear flesh from the ribcage of the carrion. Zoltan and Percival tried to interrogate the man, but failed to learn anything. The man only groaned, shuddered, put his head between his arms and continued to strip the bones of its remains. The dog barked and bared its teeth to the gums. The body of the dead horse gave off a disgusting stench.
They did not risk abandoning the path, which soon led them to another burning ruin. The fire had been set to a fairly large village, around which there must have been a skirmish because next to the smoldering ruins was a fresh burial mound. Some distance from the mound near the road side stood an oak. On the branches hung acorns.
And people.
‘We have to look.’ Zoltan Chivay decided, putting an end to discussions about risks and dangers. ‘Let’s get closer.’
‘Why the hell,’ Dandelion raised his voice, ‘do you want to look at those hanged men, Zoltan? For loot? I can see from here that they have no boots.’
‘You’re an idiot. This is not about the boots, but the military situation. The developments in the theater of military operations. What are you laughing at? You are a poet, you don’t know about strategy.’
‘I hate to disappoint you, but I do know.’
‘And I tell you, you wouldn’t know strategy if it jumped out of the bushes and kicked you in the ass.’
‘You’re right. Strategy, which jumps out of the bushes, I leave to dwarves. And hanging from an oak, too.’
Zoltan waved his hand and walked to the tree. Dandelion who could not resist his curiosity, spurred on Pegasus, and went after the dwarf. Geralt, after a moment’s reflection, followed them. Milva trailed after him.
The crows that were feeding on the corpses reluctantly rose into the air, squawking and rustling their feathers. Some flew off in the direction of the forest; others simply moved to the higher branches of the huge tree, watching with interest from the shoulder of the dwarf, Field Marshal Duda obscenely insulted their mothers.
On the first of the seven hanged was a board around his neck with the inscription: “Traitor to the Nation”. From the second hung the sign “Collaborator”, the third “Elf Snitch”, the forth “Deserter”. The fifth was a woman wearing only underwear, torn and bloody, her board read “Nilfgaard whore”. Two of the men did not have boards and could it could only be inferred that they were hung by chance.
‘Good news.’ Zoltan Chivay rejoiced, pointing to the boards. ‘See? Our army has passed this way. Our gallant boys have gone on the offensive and repelled the aggressors. And they had, so I see, plenty of time for rest and entertainment.’
‘And what does this mean for us?’
‘That the front has already moved, and separates us from Nilfgaard’s army. We’re safe.’
‘And the smoke in front of us?’
‘Those are ours.’ The dwarf said. ‘Burning the villages where the squirrels were given aid. We are already behind the front, I tell you. From this crossroads the southern route leads straight to Armeria, the fort in between the Chotla and the Ina. The way looks good, we can continue. We no longer have to fear the Nilfgaardians, we are safe.’
‘There is no smoke without fire.’ Milva said. ‘And where there is fire there is something to be burned. I think it is stupid to rush towards the fire. It is stupid and careless to stay on the road, where at any moment we could be surprised by riders. Let’s go back to the woods.’
‘The army of Sodden went this way.’ The dwarf insisted. ‘We are behind the front. We should not be afraid to travel he road, and if we do come across an army, it will be ours.’
‘Risky.’ The archer shook her head. ‘Were you such a soldier and a strategist, Zoltan, you’d know that the Nilfgaardian cavalry make forays into their opponents outposts. It is possible that there are terrorists here. But we do not know what lies ahead. To the south, the sky is black with smoke; the army burns it way to Armeria. And we’re not behind the font, but at the front. We could run into troops from both sides, deserters, looters or the Scoia’tael. Let’s go to the Chotla, but along the forest paths.’
‘You’re right,’ supported Dandelion, ‘I also don’t like those smoke clouds. Even if Temeria went on the offensive, before us may be Nilfgaardian units. The Black ones penetrate deep into enemy territory. Together with the Scoia’tael, raiding, burning, killing, causing confusion and panic and then turning back. I remember what happened in Upper Sodden during the previous war. I believe we should continue through the forest. The forest will be safer.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Geralt said pointing at the last hanged man, who, although hung high, his calf was torn to shreds and in place of his feet, there were only stumps with bones sticking out. ‘Look. A ghoul did that.’
‘Monsters?’ Zoltan Chivay stopped and spat. ‘A corpse eater?’
‘Exactly. We will need to guard well at night.’
‘KRR-rrwa mother!’ Field Marshal Duda croaked.
‘You too
k the word right out of my mouth, bird.’ Zoltan frowned. ‘So we have a dilemma. What do we do? Go into the woods, where there are ghouls, or take the road, where there are troops and marauders?’
‘Into the woods.’ Milva said with conviction. ‘And the denser the better. I prefer ghouls to men.’
They travelled the forest, initially cautious, tense, and alert and responded to every rustle in the undergrowth. Soon, however, they regained their countenance, humor and their former pace. They did not see any ghouls, or the slightest trace of their existence. Zoltan joked that all the monsters and demons that had eyes, had learned of the approaching army and seen the action of what the volunteers of Vergen had done to the deserters and fled into the deepest wilderness, where they were hiding in fear and chattering teeth.
‘They need to guard their wives and daughters.’ Milva growled. ‘The monsters are aware that there are horny soldiers in the procession, and they would not let even a sheep pass. And if they put clothing on a willow tree, it would be just them and the knot hole.’
Dandelion, who had no longer lost his humor and talkativeness, tightened the strings on his lute and began to compose a couplet to the use of willows, lustful soldiers and knot holes; the dwarf and the parrot competed in helping with the rhymes.
‘O.’ Zoltan said.
‘What? Where?’ Dandelion asked, while standing in his stirrups and looking into the gorge in the direction the dwarf was looking. “I don’t see anything!’
‘O.’
‘Don’t talk like your parrot! O, what?’
‘The river.’ Zoltan replied calmly. ‘It flows into the Chotla. It is called O.’
‘Ahh…’
‘Oh, no!’ Percival Schuttenbach laughed, shaking his head. ‘A flows into the Chotla upstream, well away from here. This is O, not A.’
The ravine, through which the river, with the complicated name ran, was overgrown with nettles which reached above the heads of the dwarves, they had an overwhelming smell of mint and rotten wood and resounded with the constant croaking of frogs. It also had very steep slopes, which proved to be disastrous. The old cart which had until now bravely endured all obstacles and potholes, ended its journey on the banks of the river O. It slipped from the hands of the dwarves, rolling down the hit to the bottom of the ravine, where it shattered into pieces.
‘Rrrrurr… Mother!’ Field Marshal Duda croaked, creating a chorus counterpoint to Zoltan and his company.
‘Truth be told,’ Dandelion said, eyeing the remains of the cart and the luggage strewn about it. ‘It was a happy accident. Your creaky cart was slowing down the march. Face it Zoltan, we have been lucky as hell that nobody has discovered or pursued us. If we had to run, we could do nothing but leave the cart with all of your packs and sacks. ‘
The dwarf snorted angrily into his beard, but surprisingly Percival Schuttenbach supported the troubadour.
Support, the witcher saw, which was accompanied by several significant winks. It was assumed the winks were to be stealthy, but the exaggerated pantomime of the little gnome’s face excluded discretion.
‘The poet is right.’ Percival said, grimacing and blinking. ‘We are near the fork between the Chotla and Ina. Before us lies Fen Carn, with the same rough terrain. Passing it would be difficult with the cart. And if we were to meet up with the Temerian army over the Ina, with our cargo… We could have trouble.’
Zoltan rubbed his nose, thinking.
‘Well, good.’ He said finally, looking at the remains of the cart, floating down the river on a lazy current. ‘We’ll separate. Munro, Figgis, Caleb and Yazon will stay here. The rest of us will continue. We will have to load the horses with provisions and equipment. Munro, you know what to do? You have shovels?’
‘We do.’
‘Do not leave any trace! Mark the spot secretly! And do not forget where you hid everything!’
‘Rest assured.’
‘Catch up to us when you can.’ Zoltan tucked his hatchet into his belt and threw his backpack over his shoulder along with Sihil. ‘We are crossing over O, then along the Chotla to Ina. Farewell.’
‘Interesting.’ Milva muttered to Geralt, when their weakened squad departed on the road, waving farewell to the four dwarves left behind. ‘I wonder what was in those boxes, that they needed to bury them and mark the place. And so that none of us saw.’
‘It’s not our business.’
‘I don’t think,’ Dandelion said softly while carefully guiding Pegasus among the fallen trunks, ‘that the boxes contained clean underwear. They had high expectations for that shipment. I’ve talked to them on many evenings to know what they are hiding.’
‘And what might they be hiding, in your opinion?’
‘Their future.’ The poet looked to see if anyone was listening. ‘Percival is a professional gem cutter; he wants to set up his own workshop. Figgis and Yazon are blacksmiths, and spoke of a forge. Caleb Stratton wants to get married but his bride’s parents expelled him once for being penniless. And Zoltan…’
‘Stop, Dandelion. Gossiping is for women.’
‘I apologize, Milva.’
‘There is no need to.’
Once they cross the river, the dark damp strip of trees became more spares and turned into low birch trees and dry grassland. Despite this, they rode slowly. They followed the example of Milva, who immediately after leaving the forest, place a freckled little girl with braids into her saddle. Dandelion also seated a child on Pegasus, and Zoltan, took two on his chestnut stallion, as he walked alongside holding the reins. But the pace did not increase; the women of Kernow were in no condition to go faster.
It was almost evening, when after hours of wandering among the gorges and ravines, Zoltan Chivay stopped and exchanged a few words with Percival Schuttenbach, after which he turned to the rest of the company.
‘Do not worry and do not laugh at me.’ He said. ‘But it seems that I have gotten us lost. I don’t know, dammit, where we are or which way to go.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense.’ Dandelion exclaimed angrily. ‘What do you mean you don’t know? After all, we are following the course of the stream. And there in the ravine, is your river O. Am I right?’
‘You are. But note which direction it flows.’
‘Damn. That’s impossible!’
‘It’s possible.’ Milva said grimly, patiently pulling dry leaves and pine needles from the hair of the girl with freckles, who she was carrying on her horse. ‘All the turns have confused use. We have turned in the wrong direction.’
‘But it is still the river O.’ Dandelion repeated stubbornly. ‘If we stay with it we can’t get lost. The river will meander, and twist, but eventually it will empty into an estuary. It is the order of the world.’
‘Do not play smart, singer.’ Zoltan wrinkled his nose. ‘Shut your mouth. Can’t you see I’m thinking?’
‘No, there’s nothing to suggest it. I tell you again, if we keep to the river, and then…’
‘Stop babbling.’ Milva growled. ‘You’re a city rat. Your world order is enclosed by stone walls; the cobbled streets of your views may be worth something. But look around! Valleys and ravines, steep and overgrown banks. How do we keep to the river? After the ravine slopes down into scrub and swamp, then up again, then down and then back up? Try it a few times without dropping the reins. We have women and children, Dandelion. And evening is coming.’
‘I noticed. I will be silent. Let us hear what you propose as someone who is familiar with the forest.’
Zoltan slapped the parrot on the head, cursing, his finger got caught in a lock of his beard, he pulled at it furiously.
‘Percival?’
‘We roughly know the desired direction.’ The gnome looked at the sun, hanging just above the treetops. ‘The first proposal is this: We turn around and walk away from the mud to dry ground and go through Fen Carn, following the river to the Chotla.’
‘What about the other plan?’
‘The O is shallow. Although
after the recent rains it carries more water than normal, it can be easily forded. We move onto the opposite shore. Following the direction of the sun we will come to the junction of the Chotla and Ina.’
‘No.’ said the witcher. ‘The second plan I have definitely ruled out. Nor should you think about it. After the second bank we would sooner or later end up in the mossy forests. That is an ugly place. My advice is to avoid it.’
‘You know these places? You’ve been there before? You know how to get there?’
The witcher rubbed his forehead, taking his time to answer.
‘I’ve been there once,’ he recalled in a low voice. ‘Three years ago. I came from the opposite side, from the east. I was going to Brugge and I wanted to shorten the path. How I escaped from there, I don’t remember. I was brought out half-dead on a cart.’
The dwarf stared at him for a while, but did not ask any more questions.
They turned back in silence. The women from Kernow walked with difficulty, stumbling and supporting the children, but none make a word of complaint. Milva rode alongside the witcher, the little girl with the braids asleep in her arms.
‘If I understand,’ she said, ‘something in those woods three years ago, almost ended your life. You’ve a dangerous craft, Geralt.’
‘I cannot deny it.’
‘I know what happened back then,’ boasted Dandelion. ‘You were seriously wounded, a carter drove you out. At his family’s farm you later found Ciri. Yennefer told me.’
At the sound of that name, Milva smiled slightly. This did not escape the attention of Geralt. He decided that when the next time they camped he would box Dandelion’s ears for his uncontrollable tongue. Knowing the poet, it would have no effect; especially considering Dandelion sung everything he knew.
‘Maybe we made a mistake by not going through the moss forests,’ Milva mussed aloud. ‘Maybe you could have found your girl… The elves believe that if you re-visit a place where something important happened, you may repeat the event… They call it… Dammit, I forgot. Noose of fate?’