Ciri bit her lip, wrinkled her nose and hesitated, looking at the junction, at the sandy, rutted track, furrowed by hooves and cartwheels. But Geralt now knew where he was and did not want to depend on her uncertain abilities. He set off along the road heading eastwards, towards Brugge. Ciri, still frowning, was looking back towards the west.

‘That leads to Nastrog Castle,’ he jibed. ‘Are you missing Kistrin?’

The little girl grunted and followed him obediently, but looked back several times.

‘What is it, Ciri?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘But we’re going the wrong way, Geralt.’

‘Why? We’re going to Brugge, to King Venzlav, who lives in a splendid castle. We shall take baths and sleep on a feather bed…’

‘It’s a bad road,’ she said. ‘A bad road.’

‘That’s true, I’ve seen better. Don’t be sniffy, Ciri. Let’s go. With a will.’

They went around an overgrown bend. And it turned out Ciri had been right.

They were suddenly, quickly, surrounded, from all sides. Men in conical helmets, chainmail and dark-blue tunics with the gold and black chequered pattern of Verden on their chests. They encircled the pair, but none of the men approached or reached for a weapon.

‘Whence and whither?’ barked a thickset individual in worn-out, green apparel, standing before Geralt with bandy legs set wide apart. His face was as swarthy and wrinkled as a prune. A bow and white-fletched arrows protruded behind him, high above his head.

‘We’ve come from Burnt Stump,’ the Witcher lied effortlessly, squeezing Ciri’s little hand knowingly. ‘And we’re going home to Brugge. What’s happening?’

‘Royal service,’ the dark-faced individual said courteously, as though he had only then noticed the sword on Geralt’s back. ‘We…’

‘Bring ‘im ‘ere, Junghans!’ yelled someone standing further down the road. The mercenaries parted.

‘Don’t look, Ciri,’ Geralt said quickly. ‘Avert your eyes. Don’t look.’

A fallen tree lay on the road, blocking the way with a tangle of boughs. Long white splinters radiated from the partly-hacked and broken trunk standing in the roadside thicket. A loaded wagon covered with a tarpaulin stood before the tree. Two small, shaggy horses, stuck with arrows and exposing yellow teeth, were lying on the ground caught up in in the shafts and halters. One was still alive and was snorting heavily and kicking.

There were also people lying in dark patches of blood soaked into the sand, hanging over the side of the wagon and hunched over the wheels.

Two men slowly emerged from among the armed men gathered around the wagon, to be joined by a third. The others–there were around ten of them–stood motionless, holding their horses.

‘What happened?’ the Witcher asked, standing so as to block out Ciri’s view of the massacre.

A beady-eyed man in a short coat of mail and high boots gave him a searching look and audibly rubbed his bristly chin. He had a worn, shiny leather bracer of the kind archers use on his left forearm.

‘Ambush,’ he said curtly. ‘Eerie wives did for these merchants. We’re looking into it.’