Brokilon was alive.

But the Witcher did not let himself be deceived. He knew where he was. He remembered the boy with the arrow in his eye. He had occasionally seen white bones with red ants crawling over them among the moss and pine needles.

He walked on, cautiously but swiftly. The trail was fresh. He hoped to reach and send back the men walking in front of him. He deluded himself that it was not too late.

But it was.

He would not have noticed the next corpse had it not been for the sunlight reflecting on the blade of the short sword it was gripping. It was a grown man. His simple clothing, coloured a practical dun, indicated his lowly status. His garments–not counting the blood stains surrounding the two feathers sticking into his chest–were clean and new, so he could not have been a common servant.

Geralt looked around and saw a third body, dressed in a leather jacket and short, green cape. The ground around the dead man’s legs was churned up, the moss and pine needles were furrowed right down to the sand. There was no doubt; this man had taken a long time to die.

He heard a groan.

He quickly parted the juniper bushes and saw the deep tree throw they were concealing. A powerfully built man, with black, curly hair and beard contrasting with the dreadful, downright deathly pallor of his face, was lying in the hollow on the exposed roots of the pine. His pale, deerskin kaftan was red with blood.

The Witcher jumped into the hollow. The wounded man opened his eyes.

‘Geralt…’ he groaned. ‘O, ye Gods… I must be dreaming…’

‘Frexinet?’ the Witcher asked in astonishment. ‘You, here?’

‘Yes, me… Ooooow…’

‘Don’t move,’ Geralt said, kneeling beside him. ‘Where were you hit? I can’t see the arrow…’

‘It passed… right through. I broke off the arrowhead and pulled it out… Listen Geralt—’

‘Be quiet, Frexinet, or you’ll choke on your blood. You have a punctured lung. A pox on it, I have to get you out of here. What the bloody hell were you doing in Brokilon? It’s dryad territory, their sanctuary, no one gets out of here alive. I can’t believe you didn’t know that.’

‘Later…’ Frexinet groaned and spat blood. ‘I’ll tell you later… Now get me out. Oh, a pox on it. Have a care… Oooooow…’

‘I can’t do it,’ Geralt said, straightening up and looking around. ‘You’re too heavy.’

‘Leave me,’ the wounded man grunted. ‘Leave me, too bad… But save her… by the Gods, save her…’

‘Who?’

‘The princess… Oh… Find her, Geralt.’

‘Lie still, dammit! I’ll knock something up and haul you out.’

Frexinet coughed hard and spat again; a viscous, stretching thread of blood hung from his chin. The Witcher cursed, vaulted out of the hollow and looked around. He needed two young saplings. He moved quickly towards the edge of the clearing, where he had seen a clump of alders.