It was already too late. The tree creature was upon them. Paralysed by terror, they could now see its prey: four robbers, hanging in a tangle of branches. Two were still alive, for they were emitting hoarse croaks and kicking their legs. The third, probably unconscious, was hanging limply. The monster was clearly trying to catch its prey alive. But it had been unsuccessful with the fourth, and it had inadvertently squeezed too hard–which was obvious from its victim’s bulging eyes and distended tongue, which was flopping down over a chin soiled with blood and vomit.

The next second they were hanging in the air, tangled in the branches, all three of them howling to high heaven.

‘Graze, graze, graze,’ they heard from below, near the roots. ‘Graze, graze, Little Tree.’

A young druidess in a white robe with a flower wreath on her head strode behind the tree creature, driving it lightly with a leafy twig.

‘Don’t harm them, Little Tree, don’t squeeze. Gently. Graze, graze, graze.’

‘We aren’t brigands…’ Geralt grunted from above, barely able to produce a sound from his chest, which was being crushed by the bough. ‘Order it to let us go… We’re innocent…’

‘They all say that.’ The druidess shooed away a little butterfly fluttering around her brow. ‘Graze, graze, graze.’

‘I’ve pissed myself…’ Angoulême whimpered. ‘I’ve bloody pissed myself!’

Milva only wheezed. Her head was lolling on her chest. Geralt swore vilely. It was the only thing he could do.

Driven by the druidess, the tree creature ran jauntily through the forest. During the run, all of the prisoners–at least those that were conscious–teeth were chattering to the rhythm of the creature’s leaps, so loudly it echoed.

After a short while they were in a large clearing. Geralt saw a group of white-robed druids, and besides them another tree creature. The other had a poorer collection–only three bandits hung from its boughs, and probably only one was still alive.

‘Oh, criminals, malefactors, oh, contemptible ones!’ declaimed one of the druids from below. He was an old man resting on a long crosier. ‘Observe carefully. See what punishment befalls criminals and base individuals in Myrkvid Forest. Look on and remember. We shall release you, that you might tell others about what you will soon behold. As a warning!’

In the very centre of the clearing stood a cage woven from wicker, a great, human-shaped effigy upon a huge pile of logs and faggots. The cage was full of yelling and struggling people. The Witcher could clearly hear the frog-like croaking of the robber Nightingale, hoarse with terror. He saw the face of the half-elf Schirrú, as white as a sheet and contorted in panicked fear, pressed against the wicker lattice.

‘Druids!’ Geralt yelled, puting all his strength into the cry, in order to be heard despite the general clamour. ‘Lady flaminika! I am the Witcher Geralt!’