“An underground spring, the water’s slightly sulphurous. Gremlins, a whole flock, probably ten of them. Some sort of amphibians, probably salamanders… Bats…”

An immense eagle flew down from a rocky ledge located somewhere overhead and circled above, crying out repeatedly. The werewolf raised his head and glanced at the mountain peaks. And the dark clouds gliding out from behind them.

“There’s a storm coming. What a summer, when there’s almost not a day without a storm… What shall we do, Master Geralt? Another hole?”

“Another hole.”

In order to reach the next one, they had to pass under a waterfall cascading down from a cliff; not very large, but sufficient to wet them through. The moss-covered rocks were as slippery as soap. Dussart metamorphosed into a wolf to continue. Geralt, after slipping dangerously several times, forced himself onward, cursed and overcame a difficult section on all fours. Lucky Dandelion’s not here, he thought, he’d have turned it into a ballad. The lycanthrope in front in wolfish form with a witcher behind him on all fours. People would have had a ball.

“A large hole, Master Witcher,” said Dussart, sniffing. “Broad and deep. There are mountain trolls there. Five or six hefty trolls. And bats. Loads of bat dung.”

“We’ll go on. To the next one.”

“Trolls… The same trolls as before. The caves are connected.”

“A bear. A cub. It was there, but it’s gone. Not long since.”

“Marmots. Bats. Vampyrodes.”

The werewolf leaped back from the next cave as though he’d been stung.

“A gorgon,” he whispered. “There’s a huge gorgon deep in the cave. It’s sleeping. There’s nothing else apart from it.”

“I’m not surprised,” the Witcher muttered. “Let’s go away. Silently. Because it’s liable to awaken…”

They walked away, looking back anxiously. They approached the next cave, fortunately located away from the gorgon’s lair, slowly, aware that it wouldn’t do any harm to be cautious. It didn’t do any harm, but turned out to be unnecessary. The next few caves didn’t hide anything in their depths other than bats, marmots, mice, voles and shrews. And thick layers of dung.

Geralt was weary and resigned. Dussart clearly was too. But he kept his chin up, you had to grant him that, and didn’t betray any discouragement by word or gesture. But the Witcher didn’t have any illusions. The werewolf had his doubts about the operation’s chances of success. In keeping with what Geralt had once heard and what the old herbalist had confirmed, the steep, eastern cliff of Mount Cremora was riddled with holes, penetrated by countless caves. And indeed, they found countless caves. But Dussart clearly didn’t believe it was possible to sniff out and find the right one, which was an underground passage leading inside the rocky complex of the Citadel.