Geralt saw the first corpse immediately—the white of the sheepskin jacket and matt-blue of the dress stood out clearly against a yellowing clump of sedge. He didn’t see the second corpse but its location was betrayed by three wolves sitting calmly on their haunches watching the witcher. His mare snorted and the wolves, as if at a command, unhurriedly trotted into the woods, every now and again turning their triangular heads to watch the newcomer. Geralt jumped off his horse.

The woman in the sheepskin and blue dress had no face or throat, and most of her left thigh had gone. The witcher, not leaning over, walked by her.

The man lay with his face to the ground. Geralt didn’t turn the body over, seeing that the wolves and birds hadn’t been idle. And there was no need to examine the corpse in detail—the shoulders and back of the woollen doublet were covered with thick black rivulets of dried blood. It was clear the man had died from a blow to the neck, and the wolves had only found the body afterward.

On a wide belt next to a short cutlass in a wooden sheath the man wore a leather purse. The witcher tore it off and, item by item, threw the contents on the grass: a tinderbox, a piece of chalk, sealing-wax, a handful of silver coins, a folding shaving-knife with a bone handle, a rabbit’s ear, three keys and a talisman with a phallic symbol. Two letters, written on canvas, were damp with rain and dew, smudged beyond readability. The third, written on parchment, was also ruined by damp, but still legible. It was a credit note made out by the dwarves’ bank in Murivel to a merchant called Rulle Asper, or Aspen. It wasn’t for a large sum.

Bending over, Geralt lifted the man’s right hand. As he had expected, the copper ring digging into the swollen, blue finger carried the sign of the armorers’ guild: a stylized helmet with visor, two crossed swords and the rune “A” engraved beneath them.

The witcher returned to the woman’s corpse. As he was turning the body over, something pricked him in the finger—a rose, pinned to the dress. The flower had withered but not lost its color: the petals were dark blue, very dark blue. It was the first time Geralt had seen such a rose. He turned the body over completely, and winced.

On the woman’s bare and bloody neck were clear bite marks. And not those of a wolf.

The witcher carefully backed away to his horse. Without taking his eyes from the forest edge, he climbed into the saddle. He circled the glade twice and, leaning over, looked around, examining the ground closely.

“So, Roach,” he said quietly, “the case is reasonably clear. The armorer and the woman arrived on horseback from the direction of the forest. They were on their way home from Murivel, because nobody carries an uncashed credit note for long. Why they were going this way and not following the highway? I don’t know. But they were crossing the heath, side by side. And then—again, I don’t know why—they both dismounted, or fell from, their horses. The armorer died instantly. The woman ran, then fell and died, and whatever attacked her—which didn’t leave any tracks—dragged her along the ground, with her throat in its teeth. The horses ran off. This happened two or three days ago.”