‘Nothing. Go on, Yurga.’

‘The battle was dreadful, oh my, but were it not for those sorcerers on the hill, who knows, perhaps we wouldn’t be talking here today, riding homeward, for that home wouldn’t exist, nor me, and maybe not you either… Yes, it was thanks to the sorcerers. Fourteen of them perished defending us, the people of Sodden and Riverdell. Ha, certainly, others also fought there, soldiers and noblemen, and peasants, too. Whoever could, took up a pitchfork or an axe, or even a club… All of them fought valiantly and many fell. But the sorcerers… It’s no feat for a soldier to fall, for that is his trade, after all, and life is short anyhow. But the sorcerers could have lived, as long they wished. And they didn’t waver.’

‘They didn’t waver,’ the Witcher repeated, rubbing his forehead with a hand. ‘They didn’t waver. And I was in the North…’

‘What’s the matter, sir?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Yes… So now we–everyone from around here–take flowers there, to that hill, and in May, at Beltane, a fire always burns. And it shall burn there forever and a day. And forever shall they be in people’s memories, that fourteen. And living like that in memory is… is… something more! More, Geralt, sir!’

‘You’re right, Yurga.’

‘Every child of ours knows the names of the fourteen, carved in the stone that stands on the top of the hill. Don’t you believe me? Listen: Axel Raby, Triss Merigold, Atlan Kerk, Vanielle of Brugge, Dagobert of Vole—’

‘Stop, Yurga.’

‘What’s the matter, sir? You’re as pale as death!’

‘It’s nothing.’

VII

He walked uphill very slowly, cautiously, listening to the creaking of the sinews and muscles around the magically healed wound. Although it seemed to be completely healed, he continued to protect the leg and not risk resting all his body weight on it. It was hot and the scent of grass struck his head, pleasantly intoxicating him.

The obelisk was not standing in the centre of the hill’s flat top, but was further back, beyond the circle of angular stones. Had he climbed up there just before sunset the shadow of the menhir falling on the circle would have marked the precise diameter, would have indicated the direction in which the faces of the sorcerers had been turned during the battle. Geralt looked in that direction, towards the boundless, undulating fields. If any bones of the fallen were still there–and there were for certain–they were covered by lush grass. A hawk was circling, describing a calm circle on outspread wings. The single moving point in a landscape transfixed in the searing heat.

The obelisk was wide at the base–five people would have had to link hands in order to encircle it. It was apparent that without the help of magic it could not have been hauled up onto the hill. The surface of the menhir, which was turned towards the stone circle, was smoothly worked; runic letters could be seen engraved on it.