‘What about you and Cahir?’ Angoulême bit her lip. ‘What will happen to you? Nightingale isn’t stupid. When he sees a half-dead riderless horse he’ll rake over every hollow in the region! And you won’t get far with Cahir!’

‘Schirrú–for he’s the one pursuing us–will follow your trail.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘I’m certain. Go.’

‘What will aunty say when I show up without you?’

‘You’ll explain. But not to Milva; to Regis. Regis will know what’s to be done. And we… When Cahir’s mop dries a bit harder onto his pate, we’ll make for Toussaint. We’ll meet up there somehow. Very well, don’t dally. Get on your horse and ride. Don’t let our pursuers get any closer. Don’t let them hunt you by sight.’

‘Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs. Look after yourselves! Farewell!’

‘Farewell, Angoulême.’

He didn’t move too far from the road. He couldn’t deny himself a glance at their pursuers. And in fact he didn’t fear any trouble from them, knowing they wouldn’t waste time and would pursue Angoulême.

He wasn’t mistaken.

The riders who thundered into the pass less than a quarter of an hour later stopped, admittedly, at the sight of the dead horse, shouted, argued, trotted around the roadside bushes, but returned almost at once to the road to resume their pursuit. They clearly believed that two of the three fugitives were now riding one horse and it would be possible to catch them quickly if they didn’t dawdle. Geralt saw that some of the pursuing horses weren’t in the best of shape either.

There weren’t too many black cloaks of the Nilfgaardian light horse among them. Nightingale’s colourful brigands predominated. Geralt couldn’t see if Nightingale himself was taking part in the hunt, or if he’d stayed behind to treat his mutilated face.

When the hoof beats of the vanishing pursuers had faded away, Geralt stood up from his hiding place in the bracken, lifted and held up the moaning and groaning Cahir.

‘The horse is too feeble to bear you. Will you be able to walk?’

The Nilfgaardian made a noise which might as easily have been agreement or disagreement. Or something else. But he shuffled forward, and that was the main idea.

They went down to the stream bed in the ravine. Cahir negotiated the final few yards of the slippery slope in a rather chaotic descent. He crawled to the stream, drank, and poured the icy water copiously over the bandage on his head. The Witcher didn’t hurry him. He was breathing heavily himself, gathering his strength.