The myriapod flexed and turned around to reach him with its pincers, and at the same time fiercely dug its claws into the tree and wrapped itself around it. Right then an arrow hissed above Geralt’s head, penetrating the armour with a crack, pinning the creature to the trunk. The scolopendromorph writhed, broke the arrow and freed itself, but was struck at once by two more. The Witcher kicked the thrashing abdomen off and rolled away to the side.

Braenn, kneeling, was shooting at an astonishing rate, sending arrow after arrow into the scolopendromorph. The myriapod was breaking the shafts to free itself, but each successive arrow would pin it to the trunk again. The creature snapped its flat, shiny, dark-red maw and clanged its pincers by the places which had been pierced by the arrows, instinctively trying to reach the enemy which was wounding it.

Geralt leaped at it from the side, took a big swing and hacked with his sword, ending the fight with one blow. The tree acted like an executioner’s block.

Braenn approached slowly, an arrow nocked, kicked the body writhing in the grass, its limbs thrashing around, and spat on it.

‘Thanks,’ the Witcher said, crushing the beast’s severed head with blows of his heel.

‘Eh?’

‘You saved my life.’

The dryad looked at him. There was neither understanding nor emotion in her expression.

‘Yghern,’ she said, nudging the writhing body with a boot. ‘It broke my arrows.’

‘You saved my life and that little dryad’s,’ Geralt repeated. ‘Where the bloody hell is she?’

Braenn deftly brushed aside the bramble thicket and plunged an arm among the thorny shoots.

‘As I thought,’ she said, pulling the little creature in the grey jacket from the thicket. ‘See for yourself, Gwynbleidd.’

It was not a dryad. Neither was it an elf, sylph, puck or halfling. It was a quite ordinary little human girl. In the centre of Brokilon, it was the most extraordinary place to come across an ordinary, human little girl.

She had fair, mousy hair and huge, glaringly green eyes. She could not have been more than ten years old.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘How did you get here?’

She did not reply. Where have I seen her before? he wondered. I’ve seen her before somewhere. Either her or someone very similar to her.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, hesitantly.

‘I’m not afraid,’ she mumbled indistinctly. She clearly had a cold.

‘Let us get out of here,’ Braenn suddenly said, looking all around. ‘Where there is one yghern, you can usually expect another. And I have few arrows now.’

The girl looked at her, opened her mouth and wiped it with the back of her hand, smearing dust over her face.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Geralt asked again, leaning forward. ‘What are you doing… in this forest? How did you get here?’

The girl lowered her head and sniffed loudly.

‘Cat got your tongue? Who are you, I said? What’s your name?’

‘Ciri,’ she said, sniffing.