He spurred on his mare. The day was already drawing to a close, and he intended to patrol a few more settlements before dusk. First, the nearest colony of charcoal burners, located in a clearing called Rogovizna. Pinety had been with him the first time he was there.

* * *

To the Witcher’s amazement, instead of the site of the massacre being a gloomy, godforsaken wilderness, it turned out to be a place of intense work, full of people. The charcoal burners—who called themselves “smokers”—were labouring on the building site of a new kiln used for burning charcoal. The charcoal kiln was a dome of wood, not some random heap by any means, but a meticulously and evenly arranged mound. When Geralt and Pinety arrived at the clearing they found the charcoal burners covering the mound with moss and carefully topping it with soil. Another charcoal kiln, built earlier, was already in operation, meaning it was smoking copiously. The entire clearing was enveloped in eye-stinging smoke and an acrid resinous smell attacked the nostrils.

“How long ago…” the Witcher coughed. “How long ago, did you say, was—?”

“Exactly a month ago.”

“And people are working here as if nothing happened?”

“There’s great demand for charcoal,” explained Pinety. “Charcoal is the only fuel that can achieve a high enough temperature for smelting. The furnaces near Dorian and Gors Velen couldn’t function without it, and smelting is the most important and most promising branch of industry. Because of demand, charcoal burning is a lucrative job, and economics, Witcher, is like nature and abhors a vacuum. The massacred smokers were buried over there, do you see the graves? The sand is still a fresh yellow colour. And new workers replaced them. The charcoal kiln’s smoking, and life goes on.”

They dismounted. The smokers were too busy to pay them any attention. If anyone was showing them interest it was the women and children, a few of whom were running among the shacks.

“Indeed.” Pinety guessed the question before the Witcher could ask it. “There are also children among those under the burial mound. Three. And three women. And nine men and youths. Follow me.”

They walked between cords of seasoning timber.

“Several men were killed on the spot, their heads smashed in,” the sorcerer said. “The rest of them were incapacitated and immobilised, the heel cords of their feet severed with a sharp instrument. Many of them, including all the children, had their arms additionally broken. The captives were then murdered. Their throats were torn apart, they were eviscerated and their chests ripped open. Their backs were flayed and they were scalped. One of the women—”

“Enough.” The Witcher looked at the black patches of blood, still visible on the birch trunks. “That’s enough, Pinety.”

“You ought to know who—what—you’re dealing with.”

“I already do.”