‘You’re wounded, sir!’

The Witcher did not reply. Looking straight into the merchant’s eyes, he fell against the cart’s box and slowly collapsed onto the bridge.

II

‘Careful, easy does it… Under his head… One of you support his head!’

‘Here, here, onto the cart!’

‘Ye Gods, he’ll bleed to death… Mr Yurga, the blood’s seeping through the dressing—’

‘Quiet! Drive on, Pokvit, make haste! Wrap him in a sheepskin, Vell, can’t you see how he shivers?’

‘Shall I pour some vodka down his throat?’

‘Can’t you see he’s unconscious? You astonish me, Vell. But give me that vodka, I need a drink… You dogs, you scoundrels, you rotten cowards! Scarpering like that and leaving me all alone!’

‘Mr Yurga! He said something!’

‘What? What’s he saying?’

‘Err, can’t make it out… seems to be a name…’

‘What name?’

‘Yennefer…’

III

‘Where am I?’

‘Lie still, sir, don’t move, or everything will tear open again. Those vile creatures bit your thigh down to the bone, you’ve lost a deal of blood… Don’t you know me? It’s Yurga! You saved me on the bridge, do you recall?’

‘Aha…’

‘Do you have a thirst?’

‘A hell of one…’

‘Drink, sir, drink. You’re burning with fever.’

‘Yurga… Where are we?’

‘We’re riding in my cart. Don’t say anything, sir, don’t move. We had to venture out of the forest towards human settlements. We must find someone with healing powers. What we’ve wrapped round your leg may be insufficient. The blood won’t stop coming—’

‘Yurga…’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘In my chest… A flacon… With green sealing wax. Strip off the seal and give it to me… In a bowl. Wash the bowl well, don’t let a soul touch the flacon… If you value your life… Swiftly, Yurga. Dammit, how this cart shakes… The flacon, Yurga…’

‘I have it… Drink, sir.’

‘Thanks… Now pay attention. I’ll soon fall asleep. I’ll thrash around and rave, then lie as though dead. It’s nothing, don’t be afeared…’

‘Lie still, sir, or the wound will open and you’ll lose blood.’

He fell back onto the skins, turned his head and felt the merchant drape him in a sheepskin and a blanket stinking of horse sweat. The cart shook and with each jolt pangs of fierce pain shot through his thigh and hip. Geralt clenched his teeth. He saw above him billions of stars. So close it seemed he could reach out and touch them. Right above his head, just above the treetops.

As he walked he picked his way in order to stay away from the light, away from the glow of bonfires, in order to remain within the compass of rippling shadow. It was not easy–pyres of fir logs were burning all around, sending into the sky a red glow shot with the flashes of sparks, marking the darkness with brighter pennants of smoke, crackling, exploding in a blaze among the figures dancing all around.

Geralt stopped to let through a frenzied procession, boisterous and wild, which was barring his way and lurching towards him. Someone tugged him by the arm, trying to shove into his hand a wooden beer mug, dripping with foam. He declined and gently but firmly pushed away the man, who was staggering and splashing beer all around from the small cask he was carrying under one arm. Geralt did not want to drink.