“And its powers? I’ve heard incredible stories… The aguara is said to be able to—”

“I hope we’ll get to Novigrad before the aguara shows us what she’s capable of,” the Witcher interrupted.

“And if—”

“It’d be better to avoid the ‘if.’ ”

The wind sprang up. The sails fluttered.

“The sky’s growing darker,” said Addario Bach, pointing. “And I think I detected some distant thunder.”

The dwarf’s hearing served him well. After barely a few moments it thundered again. This time they all heard it.

“A squall’s approaching!” yelled Pudlorak. “On the deep water, it’ll capsize us! We must flee, hide, protect ourselves from the wind! All hands to the sails, boys!”

He shoved the steersman out of the way and took the helm himself.

“Hold on! Hold on, every man!”

The sky over starboard had turned a dark indigo. Suddenly a gale blew in, whipping the trees on the steep riverbank, tossing them around. The crowns of the larger trees swayed, the smaller ones bent over. A cloud of leaves and entire branches, even large boughs, were blown away. Lightning flashed blindingly, and almost at the same moment a piercing crack of thunder reverberated. Another crash followed it almost immediately. And a third.

The next moment, presaged by a growing swooshing noise, the rain came lashing down. They could see nothing beyond the wall of water. The Prophet Lebioda rocked and danced on the waves, rolling and pitching sharply every few seconds. On top of that everything was creaking. It seemed to Geralt that each plank was groaning. Each plank was living its own life and moving, so it seemed, totally independently of the others. He feared that the cutter would simply disintegrate. The Witcher repeated to himself that it was impossible, that the ship had been constructed to sail even rougher waters, and that after all they were on a river, not an ocean. He repeated it to himself, spitting water and tightly clutching the rigging.

It was difficult to tell how long it lasted. Finally, though, the rocking ceased, the wind stopped raging, and the heavy downpour churning up the water eased off, becoming rain, then drizzle. At that moment, they saw that Pudlorak’s manoeuvre had succeeded. The captain had managed to shelter the cutter behind a tall, forested island where the gale didn’t toss them around so much. The raincloud seemed to be moving away, the squall dying down.

Fog rose from the water.

* * *

Water was dripping from Pudlorak’s drenched cap and running down his face. In spite of that the captain didn’t remove it. He probably never did.

“Blood and thunder!” he said, wiping the drops from his nose. “Where has it taken us? Is it a distributary? Or an old river bed? The water is almost still…”