‘Eerie wives? Ambushing merchants?’

‘You can see for yourself,’ the beady-eyed man pointed. ‘Stuck with arrows like urchins. On the highway! They’re becoming more and more impudent, those forest hags. You can’t just not venture into the forest now, you can’t even travel the road by the forest.’

‘And you,’ the Witcher asked, squinting. ‘Who are you?’

‘Ervyll’s men. From the Nastrog squads. We were serving under Baron Frexinet. But the baron was lost in Brokilon.’

Ciri opened her mouth, but Geralt squeezed her hand hard, ordering her to stay quiet.

‘Blood for blood, I say!’ roared the beady-eyed man’s companion, a giant in a brass-studded kaftan. ‘Blood for blood! You can’t let that go. First Frexinet and the kidnapped princess from Cintra, and now merchants. By the Gods, vengeance, vengeance, I say! For if not, you’ll see, tomorrow or the next day they’ll start killing people on their own thresholds!’

‘Brick’s right,’ the beady-eyed one said. ‘Isn’t he? And you, fellow, where are you from?’

‘From Brugge,’ the Witcher lied.

‘And the girl? Your daughter?’

‘Aye,’ Geralt squeezed Ciri’s hand again.

‘From Brugge,’ Brick frowned. ‘So I’ll tell you, fellow, that your king, Venzlav, is emboldening the monstrosities right now. He doesn’t want to join forces with Ervyll, nor with Viraxas of Kerack. But if we marched on Brokilon from three sides, we’d finally destroy that scum…’

‘How did the slaughter happen?’ Geralt asked slowly. ‘Does anybody know? Did any of the merchants survive?’

‘There aren’t any witnesses,’ the beady-eyed one said. ‘But we know what happened. Junghans, a forester, can read spoors like a book. Tell him, Junghans.’

‘Well,’ said the one with the wrinkled face, ‘it were like this: the merchants were travelling along the highway. And their way were blocked. You see, sir, that fallen pine lying across the road, freshly felled. There are tracks in the thicket, want to see? Well, when the merchants stopped to clear away the tree, they were shot, just like that. Over there, from the bushes by that crooked birch. There are tracks there too. And the arrows, mark you, all dryad work, fletchings stuck on with resin, shafts bound with bast…’

‘I see,’ the Witcher interrupted, looking at the bodies. ‘Some of them, I think, survived the arrows and had their throats cut. With knives.’

One more man emerged from behind the group of mercenaries standing in front of him. He was skinny and short, in an elk-hide kaftan. He had black, short hair, and his cheeks were blue from closely-shaved, black beard growth. One glance at the small, narrow hands in short, black, fingerless gloves, at the pale, fish-like eyes, at his sword and at the hafts of the daggers stuck into his belt and down his left boot was all the Witcher needed. Geralt had seen too many murderers not to recognise one more instantly.

‘You’ve a keen eye,’ said the black-haired man, extremely slowly. ‘Indeed, you see much.’

‘And well he does,’ said the beady-eyed man. ‘Let him tell his king what he saw. Venzlav still swears eerie wives shouldn’t be killed, because they are agreeable and good. I’ll bet he visits them on May Day and ruts them. Perhaps they’re good for that. We’ll find out for ourselves if we take one alive.’