“Dandilion! What’s the matter with you? Answer me!”

“Hhhh… eeee… kheeeee… theeee whhhhorrrrrrre…”

“Are you in pain? What’s the matter? Dandilion!”

“Hhhh… Whhhooo…”

“Don’t say anything. If everything’s all right, nod.”

Dandilion grimaced and, with great difficulty, nodded and then immediately turned on his side, curled up and—choking and coughing—vomited blood.

Geralt cursed.

II

“By all the gods!” The guard stepped back and lowered the lantern. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Let us through, my good man,” said the witcher quietly, supporting Dandilion, who was huddled up in the saddle. “We’re in great haste, as you see.”

“I do.” The guard swallowed, looking at the poet’s pale face and chin covered in black, dried blood. “Wounded? It looks terrible, sir.”

“I’m in haste,” repeated Geralt. “We’ve been traveling since dawn. Let us through, please.”

“We can’t,” said the other guard. “You’re only allowed through between sunrise and sunset. None may pass at night. That’s the order. There’s no way through for anyone unless they’ve got a letter of safe-conduct from the king or the mayor. Or they’re nobility with a coat of arms.”

Dandilion croaked, huddled up even more, resting his forehead on the horse’s mane, shuddered, shook and retched dryly. Another stream of blood trickled down the branched, dried pattern on his mount’s neck.

“My good men,” Geralt said as calmly as he could, “you can see for yourselves how badly he fares. I have to find someone who can treat him. Let us through. Please.”

“Don’t ask.” The guard leaned on his halberd. “Orders are orders. I’ll go to the pillory if I let you through. They’ll chase me from service, and then how will I feed my children? No, sir, I can’t. Take your friend down from the horse and put him in the room in the barbican. We’ll dress him and he’ll last out until dawn, if that’s his fate. It’s not long now.”

“A dressing’s not enough.” The witcher ground his teeth. “We need a healer, a priest, a gifted doctor—”

“You wouldn’t be waking up anyone like that at night anyway,” said the second guard. “The most we can do is see that you don’t have to camp out under the gate until dawn. It’s warm in there and there’s somewhere to put your friend; he’ll fare better there than in the saddle. Come on, let us help you lower him from the horse.”

It was warm, stuffy and cozy in the room within the barbican. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and behind it a cricket chirped fiercely.

Three men sat at the heavy square table laid with jugs and plates.

“Forgive us for disturbing you, squires…” said the guard, holding Dandilion up. “I trust you won’t mind… This one here is a knight, hmm… And the other one is wounded, so I thought—”

“You thought well.” One of the men turned his slender, sharp, expressive face toward them and got up. “Here lay him down on the pallet.”

The man was an elf, like the other one sitting at the table. Both, judging by their clothes, which were a typical mixture of human and elven fashion, were elves who had settled and integrated. The third man, who looked the eldest, was human, a knight, judging by the way he was dressed and by his salt-and-pepper hair, cut to fit beneath a helmet.