He walked upstream, supporting Cahir and pulling the horse at the same time, wading in the water and stumbling on pebbles and fallen tree trunks. After some time Cahir stopped cooperating, stopped shuffling his legs obediently–in fact he stopped moving them at all, so the Witcher simply dragged him. It was impossible to continue like that, particularly since the stream bed was obstructed by rocks and waterfalls. Geralt grunted and lifted the wounded man onto his back. Neither did pulling the horse make life any easier. When they finally emerged from the ravine, the Witcher simply collapsed on the wet forest floor and lay, panting, completely drained, beside the groaning Cahir. He lay there for a long time. His knee had begun to throb again with intense pain.

Cahir finally started to show signs of life once more, and soon after–astonishingly–got up, swearing and holding his head. They set off. Cahir marched bravely at first. Then slowed. Then slumped down.

Geralt heaved him onto his back again and lugged him, grunting, slipping over the stones. Pain shot through his knee, and fiery, black bees seemed to flash in front of his eyes.

‘Just a month ago…’ Cahir moaned from his back. ‘Who’d have thought you’d be lugging me like this…’

‘Quiet, Nilfgaardian… You’re heavier when you talk…’

When they finally made it to the rocks and the rock walls, it was almost dark. The Witcher didn’t look for or find a cave–he fell exhausted by the first opening he came across.

Human skulls, ribs, pelvises and other bones were strewn around on the cave floor. But–more importantly–there were also dry branches there.

Cahir was feverish, trembling and shivering. He endured the sewing of the patch of skin to his skull using twine and a crooked needle manfully and fully conscious, with his faculties intact. The crisis came later, during the night. Geralt lit a fire in the cave, disregarding safety considerations. Actually, outside it was drizzling and a strong wind was blowing, so it was unlikely that anybody was wandering around watching out for the glare of a fire. And he had to keep Cahir warm.

The fever lasted the entire night. He trembled, moaned and raved. Geralt enjoyed no sleep–he kept the fire burning. And his knee hurt like hell.

A young and sturdy fellow, Cahir came around the following morning. He was pale and sweaty, and the heat of his fever could still be felt. His chattering teeth somewhat complicated articulation. But what he said was comprehensible. And he spoke lucidly. He was complaining of a headache–a fairly normal symptom for someone whose scalp has been torn from their head by an axe.

Geralt divided his time between anxiously catnapping and catching rainwater dripping from the rocks in beakers he had fashioned from birch bark. Thirst was tormenting both him and Cahir.

‘Geralt?

‘Yes?’