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Geralt scowled. His expression would have scared away a Basilisk. It had been raining the last two days and his stomach reminded him audibly that he hadn’t eaten for almost as long.“Roach, I envy you for your ability to live on grass,” he told his mare. She shook her head, as unhappy about the drizzle as he. There was smoke in the air, a sign they were approaching a village or other settlement. The mare lifted her head, nostrils wide.“You miss your oats and a dry place to sleep as much as I do, methinks. That’s what I get for taking a warhorse instead of gold, I guess.”His last horse had fallen to a gryphon, so he had been glad for this beautiful beast with its glossy black coat and the feathered fetlocks as payment. She was even-tempered and courageous, well trained to stand her ground as well as look after her rider. Geralt wasn’t used to maintaining such a finely bred animal. Consequently he had spent more of the little money he had left on oats than anticipated. The palisade fence ahead of them heralding a chance to earn some coin was all the more a welcome sight.The sight of Geralt was not so welcome to the two men guarding the entrance to the village, however. They barred his way with crossed halberds. He reined in Roach, who bared her teeth at the guard closest to her.“State your business!” the guard demanded.“Do you have any work for a Witcher?” Geralt asked the man.The guard on the left spat on the ground. The guard on the right moved his halberd out of the way.“You want Master Bogumil. I can show you. Wear a medallion?” he asked, stepping to Roach’s shoulder. The Witcher drew his medallion from his jacket and held it out for the man to see. He doubted the squinting guard could discern the wolf head, but the man seemed satisfied, turned and walked down the muddy main road. Geralt urged his mare to follow him.Master Bogumil earned his living as a cobbler. His workshop smelled of leather and glue. He waved Geralt to a stool, then called for his wife to serve their guest a hot drink, which turned out to be herbal tea laced with a shot of plum spirit. Judging by the warm welcome he got here, the village elder did indeed need the services of a Witcher.“Foul weather outside. Your good ‘ealth, master Witcher!” the man toasted him. “The gods must ‘ave led your steps our way. Foul creatures ‘ave made their ’ome in our forests. ‘Unting ‘as got difficult. Our womenfolk complain ‘bout soiled vegetable patches and laundry. And they make an infernal noise, those foul birds. Those as ‘ave seen them say they’s ugly as sin.”“Can you give me a more detailed description?” Geralt asked, although he had an idea already. Bogumil grinned, showing gaps in his brown teeth.“I can do better! ‘Ere, ‘ave a look!” He rummaged in a burlap bag, then produced some feathers. They were brownish grey, the size of a large dagger and reeked like a midden heap.“Harpies,” the Witcher concluded. “They are not usually aggressive, but will defend the area around their nest. Can one of you show me where you most often go hunting?”The cobbler nodded. “Me son can show you. You will want payment for this,I s’pose?” he asked, anxiously.Geralt’s stomach rumbled. He smiled a sour smile.“You can pay me in vittles if you don’t have any ducats. And some oats for my horse.”The man nodded eagerly, smiling his gap-toothed smile.“Of course. You eat with us before you go ‘unting them birds. You will not find us ungrateful.”“Thank you, Master Bogumil. Can you provide me with ropes and glue? I best trap the harpies in their nest.”“We will provide what you need, Master Witcher,” the elder agreed.Bogumil was as good as his word. He treated his guest to the simple fare they had, made his son look after the horse, and his wife prepare a pallet on the floor. The Witcher planned to be up at dawn, to get to the harpies’ nest when they flew out for the first time in the morning.*After they had broken their fast, Danil, the cobbler’s son, saddled the family’s draft horse and rode ahead of Geralt to show him the place where the villagers usually went hunting. The spot was well away from the road, at the foot of a rocky outcrop of the Kestrel Mountains. They heard the screeches of the harpies long before they smelled or saw them. The canopy of several ancient oaks provided them with a good hiding place. The midden heap smell of the harpies lay heavily in the air. Both men tried to breathe shallowly. The horses were jittery; Geralt had to calm them with the Axii Sign.“Are you officially allowed to hunt here?” he asked Danil, while they waited for the creatures to leave their nest.The cobbler’s son nodded. “As long as we don’t kill anything bigger than an ‘are or a badger. Roe deer and red deer are out of bounds. The foul birds make a big nuisance of themselves. Come after our prey. They befoul everything. And they attacked Bogdan. ‘E almost died. We only ‘ave a wise woman ‘ere in the village. They ‘ad to bring him to Olviny to treat ‘is wounds.”“I have seen that you hardly manage to salvage any of the food you grow. We’re dealing with a flock of six here, as far as I can see for the moment.”Danil confirmed. “Yes, six birds. There is rumour of a seventh, much bigger one. But I ‘aven’t seen it meself.”The harpies’ screeching reached a peak. The creatures flapped their wings and took off in the direction of the village. Geralt grabbed the ropes from the draft horse’s hampers, while Danil took along the pots of glue, including some brushes to apply it. They climbed up to the nest. It was one big communal collection of twigs and branches, strewn with bones and rotting organic matter, all of it covered in a generous layer of droppings. Danil stayed at the rim of the roost, handing Geralt what he needed. The Witcher waded through the ankle-high cover of harpy droppings to distribute the ropes. Then he generously poured glue over them, taking care not to touch the exceedingly sticky substance. Lastly, he tied down both ends of each rope securely, so the harpies couldn’t just carry them off. He was aware their glue trap would only work on the first two or three of the creatures, no more. He would need to use Aard to knock the others down. A couple more buckets with glue were fitted in the trees around the nest. When they were done, Geralt sent Danil into hiding further away while he fetched his silver sword from Roach and found a spot for himself near the nest.It didn’t take long before the first two harpies came flying back to the nest. The Witcher imbibed the contents of a vial which would give him control over his body. When his heartbeat had slowed below its usual rate, he stepped out of his hiding place. The two harpies had settled in the nest, but uneasily, stepping gingerly through the glue. Although it was a strong adhesive, it wouldn’t hold them to the ropes for long. Geralt jumped out of his hiding place, his blade raised high. The threat worked. The harpies screeched, flapped their wings, spattering glue everywhere on themselves. The closest lifted a little into the air, trying to sink her talons into the Witcher. He ducked, pirouetted out of reach and sliced the creature through the chest. The harpy crashed down on the rim of the nest, motionless. Her sister screeched loudly, got up into the air and flung a mass of smelly, corrosive droppings in the Witcher’s direction. She only hit empty air. Geralt danced below her, slicing her open from tail to sternum with one sweep of his blade. As he jumped aside, a third harpy swooped down, collided with her frantically jerking sister and was buried in a mass of entrails, glue and droppings. All Geralt had to do was place a boot on her back and run the sword through her heart from behind. A fourth loomed right above him, a dead sheep in her grasp. He blasted the creature and its cargo out of the sky with Aard. The blast caught one of the buckets in the trees, toppling it. Its contents spilled over the harpy’s wildly flapping wings, spraying in all directions, including Geralt’s. Reflexively he cast Quen, shielding himself, then pirouetted and with a slash separated the harpy’s head from her body. In the silence that followed he looked around for more of the creatures, but couldn’t spot any. The final two were either late to the party or had wised up. Geralt went back into hiding. After a couple of minutes, he reconsidered. He left his hiding place and used Igni on the nest. He had to apply the Sign repeatedly, as the material was too damp to catch on fire easily. Eventually a thick column of putrid black smoke rose from the harpies’ funeral pyre. It could not be missed.Two dark shapes came into view from the direction of the village. They crossed the distance to the nest with mighty strokes of their wings, swooping down on Geralt in a concerted attack. He awaited them with raised blade, his back to the slope of the mountain range. His arcing sweep cut off the taloned legs of the harpy attacking from the right. Pivoting to the left to follow the arc of the blade the Witcher sheared off a wing on the harpy attacking from the left. Both monsters emitted ear-piercing screeches, tumbling head over heels to the ground. The infernal noise made his ears ring painfully. He barely sensed something massive coming from the direction of the mountain slope. Geralt took a step in that direction, keeping the flailing harpies in his sight to make sure they wouldn’t hit him. With his body facing towards the mountain, he whipped his head around to investigate. He didn’t get a chance. He was barely able to close his eyes in time as his face was coated with a pungent, corrosive goo. Sputtering and reeling he scraped the inside of his left gauntlet over his face, but he still didn’t dare to open his eyes. Two enormous clawed feet closed around his chest and hips. He lashed out with his sword, but felt no resistance. His ribs cracked, he could barely breathe. Sharp talon tips penetrated his leather trousers, gouging into his thighs. He lashed out a second time, the sword snagging on something this time. A mistake. The claws very suddenly released him. He realised he was plummeting through the air. The harpy had carried him off the ground. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. It felt like every bone in his body had just snapped. He lay perfectly still, not daring to move. While going through every inch of his body mentally to determine what hurt the least, he listened for the beating of wings. There was nothing. Then he heard the fast-receding hoof beats of a heavy draft horse. Danil, hopefully off to fetch help. Geralt whistled for Roach, spat and gagged when some of the goo around his mouth threatened to run into it. The mare plodded towards him, but stopped at a distance, unsure whether to trust the shape on the ground. The harpy’s vile droppings masked his scent. Roach had nothing familiar to go by. Geralt kept his mouth and eyes shut, doing his best to ignore the stench assaulting his nose with every breath. At least his nostrils were not blocked by the goo. The elixir dampened the pain, which made it difficult to assess the severity of his injuries. At least he could count on it to keep haemorrhaging in his inner organs and skin to a minimum. He didn’t think he had a concussion. The pain radiating from his extremities proved his spine was still intact. Probably all of his bones were fine, excluding his ribs, which were at least cracked from the harpy queen's resolute grip. He allowed himself to faint.*The villagers hurried to the clearing Danil had seen the Witcher drop into as fast as they could. But they were too late. No trace of a body could be found. They didn’t dare pick up his shiny sword. His slightly confused and rather aggressive horse couldn’t be caught either. All they could do was walk back to their village, hoping against hope he would return to them.
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The hut in the deepest recesses of the forest was silent again, apart from the slow rhythm of several beings breathing. It had been filled with childlike chatter and nervous giggling before. But the pixies were gone now. The three entities that remained - six, if you really counted them - were silent. They looked each other in the eyes. They were debating fiercely, but no sound escaped them. All three were black, one glossy, one silky and one shaggy: A raven, a bat and a wolf. All of them above the average size for any of their kind - to which neither of them belonged.“It’s not his time!” the raven thought with a finality only death itself could muster.The bat opened her mouth and showed two glistening white fangs. “You know I can’t control it. Place him somewhere else then!”The wolf wrinkled his nose at the bat, showing a lot more teeth. “Get a grip! We all need to curb our nature from time to time. I agree this is a bad time, Baba. The moon is almost full. I can’t keep watch. And to be sincere, I am really not sure if I wouldn’t kill him myself. He is our enemy.”
The raven ruffled her feathers. “You will do as I say. The mists will welcome the harpy queen. The villagers have called the Witcher for help, now it is our turn to help him. You don’t need to fear him. Roam the woods when the moon is full if you must, Garou. Elaine knows better than to harm him. He’s here now, and that is that. Maybe for a month. We will see.”
“A month, Baba?” The wolf seemed genuinely shocked. “I fear the New Moon.”“We will see.” The bird spread her wings and sailed into an adjacent room, where she alighted on the mattress of a bed. She yawned, lazily changed into the shape of an old woman and slipped between the sheets, a smile on her lips.The wolf growled menacingly at the bat, who let go of the rafter she was hanging from. She flapped her wings, heading for the open upper half of the entrance door, which looked too narrow for her wingspan. At the last moment, she elegantly tilted her body diagonally and sailed through the opening. When she had disappeared outside, the wolf padded over to the bed. To his nose, the inert figure on the bed still reeked of harpy and all sorts of blood. He just couldn’t understand why the old hag wanted to save him. He was a Witcher…The fewer, the better. But, curious as it seemed, she did care for her faithful servants. Garou knew that from personal experience. Otherwise, he would not call this hut his home. He shook his head in a very human gesture and lay down next to the bed, keeping watch.
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Was he dreaming or was he awake? He was lying on his belly, stretched out on a soft surface. He couldn’t open his eyes. Something was tightly wrapped around his head, pressing on his eyelids. He tried to move. A mistake. He groaned. His back was stiff as a board, arms and legs hurt. Even wiggling his fingers and toes was painful. He gritted his teeth. The memory of lying in another bed, unable to move or do the most basic things by himself surfaced. It had been a couple of years ago, but the feeling of disgust it evoked was surprisingly strong.On the bright side, he still was alive, not lying on the forest floor anymore. But where was he? He listened for any sounds that would hint at his whereabouts. His nose was not assaulted by the stench of harpy droppings anymore. A herbal scent hung in the air. Also some faint musky, animalic aroma. He could discern a heartbeat.“Don’t struggle, dear. You will only hurt yourself more.” The voice belonged to an old woman.It was like looking through a badly adjusted telescope. The heartbeat emanated from a different place than the woman’s voice. Geralt tried to talk, but couldn’t move his jaw due the bandaging. His lips stuck together.Someone smeared an oily substance onto his lips. The touch smarted.“Harpy excrements are nasty. They eat through your skin. You are lucky we found you that quickly. Are you thirsty?”He nodded as best as he could. His throat was parched. A straw touched his lips. The subtle scent of mint tickled his nose. Herbal tea. He eagerly sucked on the straw, which stopped supplying liquid far too soon.“Now, now! We don’t want to strain your bowels too much,” she chided him.“How long…”, he managed to say through clenched teeth.“We found you two days ago. You got bruised all over your back down to your legs. There also was internal bleeding, but nothing life threatening. You need to drink regularly now. Let me treat your back.”As whatever had been covering him was removed, he could feel air touch the back of his knees; the only place where he was not bruised. He surmised that she was running her hands over him, because he suddenly felt freezing cold penetrate his skin. He broke out in goose bumps all over and shivered violently. The pain in his muscles made him groan. The wolf head medallion vibrated against his sternum.“You’re a sorceress?” he inquired.“No, but I know magic. You will sleep again for some time now,” she said.He wanted to protest, but before the thought could form in his brain he was already fast asleep again. *The next time he woke up the heart beat was next to him. The musky smell was a lot stronger than before. It tugged at his memory. Before he could waste a thought on it, he felt the touch of a straw against his lips. He drank. This time, the tea was laced with a soporific.*The old woman was there. He could hear her hum to herself. The creature with the heart beat didn’t seem to be around. The musky smell was gone. Geralt felt the tea had collected in his lower abdomen, exerting pressure. He was aware that he couldn’t just excuse himself, get up, walk out and relieve himself somewhere outside. He felt quite embarrassed.“Elaine, give me a hand, please,” the old woman said quietly. Hardly a moment later someone entered the room from outside, apparently in possession of an exceptionally good hearing and a heartbeat. Geralt felt the cover come off him, then two small hands grabbed him by the hips from each side and lifted him up as if he weighed nothing. He experienced the very unpleasant sensation of losing control over his bladder. His urine splashed into an earthenware bowl, from the sound of it. Something soft dabbed him dry, then he was deposited back on the bed.“Slightly brownish in colour, but no more than was to be expected from the internal contusion. You have my consent for tonight, Elaine,” the old woman said. Intense cold was applied to his back. “Look after him. Garou is indisposed.” the woman ordered while he was shivering violently again.Left to his own thoughts for a moment, he wondered: Who was the old woman? How could she not have a heartbeat? It seemed she had at least two assistants who did her bidding. Musky smell and Elaine, the strong woman. Where was he? This was far from a normal community. Then the name the old woman had used hit home. Suddenly he knew where to place the musky smell: One of the three had to be a werewolf! A cold shiver ran down his spine. Was the full moon approaching? Was this why Garou was indisposed? He desperately tried to move, but he only caused a spasm of pain which made him groan loudly. Elaine hurried to him, placed a hand between his shoulder blades and pressed him into the mattress.“Don’t move, you imbecile. She does her best to patch you up and you will ruin everything. Here, drink up!”He felt a straw poke his lips. Carefully closing them around the straw, he drank. They had scabbed over, if he moved them too much, they would break open. He didn’t want to know how the rest of this face looked. Still better than Eskel’s, he hoped. They probably changed the bandages while he was asleep.The cup was empty.“Good boy. Now sleep, my prince.” Her voice lulled him into sleep within seconds.*He woke up because somebody touched him. Strong hands rolled him on his side. He heard a heartbeat, then a sniffing sound.“Could be worse, but she is right. This is definitely necessary. I have to be careful.” Elaine’s voice.He felt her hands stroke over his chin, throat and the side of his neck. What was she doing? His breathing quickened as much as his tightly bandaged ribs allowed. He felt her lips on his neck, then her tongue. He couldn’t decide if he should be excited or scared. Her teeth broke through the skin of his neck and he could feel blood running down along it. It almost didn’t hurt; her teeth were razor-sharp. He teetered over the edge towards scared and tried to move his neck away, to no avail. After licking up the blood that had run down his skin she shuddered, keened, then bit deeply into his neck and slurped in his blood. Geralt felt panic constrict his throat. She was far stronger than him, there was nothing he could do. He was as helpless as a new-born. The more blood she drank, the more frenzied and stronger she sucked at the wound. The adrenaline coursing through him kept him awake past the point where he normally would have fainted. He didn’t even feel the pain anymore. He felt light as a feather, his senses numbing. Finally, he lost consciousness.*Garou caught the scent of fresh blood on the wind. It made him break off his frantic chase of a hind. He sat down on his haunches, sniffing the air to determine the scent’s source. It emanated from the direction of the hut. He knew Elaine had gotten permission from Baba, despite the time of the month, despite his forced absence. Baba trusted the bruxa’s self-control. It was not Garou’s station to question that decision. He should stay away from the hut. He would be a danger himself. Tonight, he craved blood as much as the vampire did. Back on his feet he picked up the trail of the hind again. Yet he stopped again after a few bounds. He heard singing. Elaine’s voice. An annoyed growl rumbled in his chest. Gathering momentum he raced towards the hut, intent on reaching it before the vampire finished her eerie song. Before she’d go for the kill.Elaine had not felt so good in a long time. So good in fact she had to interrupt her meal and sing. She had forgotten about the euphoria that came with gorging herself on blood. It was such a powerful drug. She luxuriated in the feeling, singing out her happiness at the top of her voice.Suddenly, a huge black shape leaped through the open upper half of the door. Garou, his jaws open, saliva glistening, growling deeply. He gathered himself to jump at her, tear out her throat. She raised the pitch of her voice, hurling him backwards against the door with a powerful ultrasonic scream. She let go of her prey, jumped off the bed, shapeshifting into her bat form.Garou tumbled out of the hut, taking the lower half of the door with him. Still on his back he snapped his jaws at the passing bat, closed them over a wing and held on. The bat screeched and tumbled down on him. She sank her teeth into his shoulder. He rolled over to the left, towards the bat’s struggling body. Since he refused to let go of the wing he felt and heard the bones of her left lower arm break. She screamed, shapeshifted back into her human form. He opened his jaws.She grimaced. What a mess she’d made of her task. “I am sorry, Garou. I lost control.” She straightened her broken left arm with her right one. Bones slid back into position. Sinews, muscles and skin healing within half a minute.The werewolf sat up.“Is he still alive? I dare not to go in and check.” The smell of fresh blood wafting from the hut tickled his nose enticingly.Elaine looked at him. “When you barged through the door, he was. A little, at least. His slow heartbeat might save him. I hope he survives. What will Baba do to me?”The werewolf snorted. “If he dies, you might have to give your life. Is there anything you can do to help him? Regurgitate some of his blood?”She shook her head. “That would be useless to him. I could maybe infuse him with some of my life energy. But he still is bleeding. I would devour his blood to the last drop.“Geralt woke to his heart fluttering in his chest like a bird trying to escape. Around him, all was quiet. A sharp pain persistently stabbed the side of his neck. He lifted a hand, groaned at the ache in his arm and shoulder, gingerly touched his fingers to his neck. Damp and very sticky, blood coagulating slowly, a metallic smell hanging in the air. The smell brought a rush of memories: Sucking and slurping noises, his head feeling lighter and lighter, the vampire. His fluttering heartbeat was proof his blood volume was dangerously low. He strained his senses for signs of life close by but couldn’t detect any. He had to get out of here while he could before the creature returned.The Witcher carefully explored the immediate surroundings with his hands, ignoring the pull in his arms and shoulders. He was lying on a bed, his back still as mobile as a board. Every movement hurt. Very slowly he slid his legs over the edge of the mattress, then pushed his upper body into a vertical position with the help of his arms, almost fainting again. His heartbeat was racing. He gasped for air. His ears rang. Gathering the linen sheet around his hips he tried to get up, but instantly crashed to his hands and knees. The jolt caused a sharp stab of pain in the bite wound. A rivulet of warm liquid ran down the side of his neck. He could hear fat drops hit the wooden floorboards. Instinctively, he pressed his right palm against the wound. His left arm started to shake. Then the floor hit him and he passed out.*Garou had never seen Baba so enraged. He stood at the door, in his human form, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Elaine lay on the floor, sobbing helplessly, next to the inert figure of the Witcher, who had collapsed in an attempt to flee the bed where she had attacked him so voraciously. Baba stood in the frame of her bedroom, in her young incarnation, a fair haired, pale, blue-eyed maiden. Her skin had a luminous, golden sheen and her eyes shot flashes at the vampire she had just struck down with a swipe of her hand.“I am the Morrigan, goddess of war and death! If I say he doesn’t die, he will not die, despite your best efforts! I trusted you and you failed me! If you can’t control your appetite, you have no right to be here. I give you one more chance. I don’t care that this is only done among your brethren, making you an outcast! Either you help him or you will die by my own hand!”The bruxa looked up at the menacing figure. On her homeworld, Macha did not exist. On this world though, Baba might have the power she claimed to have. Elaine was undecided. Her brethren would be disgusted with her sharing life energy with a mere human. They were sure to shun her. On the other hand, Baba had only needed a swipe of her hand to reduce Elaine to a sorry bundle on the floor. She didn’t want to risk underestimating the goddesses’ powers. She turned her head to glance at the motionless shape on the floor next to her. Quieting her sobs, she placed a hand on him, sending her perception through his body. His brain was still working, although he had lost consciousness. His heart twitched weakly from time to time. The kidneys were shutting down, so was his liver, the spleen had emptied all the stored blood into his circulation, which was about to shut down as well. Macha asked much of her. This was no easy task. She might actually die trying to restore him. Still she would try. It was her only hope, because then Fea might show her mercy. She let her life energy flow through her hands into the inert body, the way she’d do for another vampire. The body cramped, every muscle tensing, including the heart. This didn’t work. She would kill him. Elaine took her hands off him. The body slumped. A puddle of urine collected under it.She raised her head. “He’s dead. There is nothing I can do.”
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“Baba, tell us a story of the raven goddess!” the children clamoured. In the hearth a fire was blazing merrily, spreading its heat in generous waves. The old village healer raised a crooked index finger to her lips. “Now, now! If I am to tell you a story of the raven goddess, for you must know there are many, you need to be perfectly still. I do not wish to strain my voice.”Laboriously lowering herself on a chair padded with a sheepskin, she swept her gaze over her audience. The children sat cross-legged on the floor in a double semi-circle around the chair. One could have heard the mice rustle in the walls.“Which one would you like to hear?” the old woman inquired.“Tell us again about brave Danil and the Black ‘ns” a boy shouted.Baba shook her head. “No, Marek. I told that story only last week. And you say: the Black Ones .”“Is there a story you never told anybody yet?” a girl asked boldly. The old woman smiled.“Ah, clever Agnieszka! Well indeed, there is one such story. Do you want to hear it?”The shouts were louder than the first time. “Enough, children, enough. Agnieszka, would you be so kind as to pour me a cup of tea and place it on the table, so I may wet my throat if necessary?”The girl went to fill a mug with tea which smelled of sage and honey, balm for a strained throat. Agnieska placed the mug on the table with care. Baba smiled at her and cleared her throat.“Once upon a time, when my grandmother still was young, there came a queen to these lands.It was not a beautiful queen. She was huge, her voice sounded like nails grating on a slab of slate and one could smell her foul stench ten miles against the wind.Still, her people revered her as their queen, because she was the only one of them who could bear children. To be precise, she did lay eggs, for this folk was a folk of bird women. They were taller than a grown man, with long claws and sharp beaks in a human face.They would swoop down, carrying off livestock to devour in their lair, flinging their droppings everywhere, fouling all the food the humans grew on the fields, even attacking hunters to steal their prey. The villagers feared them. Folk were on the brink of starving because of this foul bird queen and her people. But they were powerless against the flying monsters.My grandmother went to the village elder and told him: “We must pray to our goddess, that she sends someone to rid us of these foul creatures.”Now, many in this country pray to Melitele, the three-fold mother goddess, but we know her by the name of Morrigan, the raven goddess, with Ana, Fea and Macha as her three aspects.And so, the whole village prayed to the raven goddess, that she would send help bearing the mark of the raven, to deal with their problem.Weeks went by. But one day a single man on a raven black stallion rode into the village, in the middle of a thunderstorm. Lightning reflected off his snow-white hair and the brave men guarding the village quivered with fear, for he indeed did bear the mark of the raven: A shining sword made of purest silver, deadly to all monsters. You could tell death followed in his footsteps just by looking into his piercing eyes.Brave Bogumil, the elder, invited him in to share his simple fare, since the stranger asked nothing more in return for his services than a bit of hospitality.The next day he set out to kill the foul queen and her retinue, so the villagers would not have to starve any longer. The battle between the queen and the white-haired stranger lasted days without either of them winning.The hero’s silver sword cut the queen deeply many times, and she befouled him with her droppings and gouged him with her talons. Both were driven to the brink of death.On the morning of the fifth day, a raven alighted on the shoulder of the queen, cawing into her ear. The queen was distracted for a moment and the white-haired hero could slay her, though gravely wounded himself.And thus, our village was saved from starvation by the raven goddess.”Agnieszka spoke up. “Baba, what happened to the wounded hero?”The old woman sighed. “We never learned of his fate, dear.” *Geralt woke with a start, gasping for air. His heartbeat was no longer fluttering like a bird trying to escape. His skin itched and burned under the gauze which he found still wrapped around his head. It prevented him from opening his eyes or mouth. A fresh bandage had been applied around his neck, his breathing still was hampered by strips of linen wound tightly around his ribcage. The pain when running his hands over his upper body was less intense than he remembered. He was not lying on a soft mattress any more, but on some much harder surface with perceivable gaps. When he touched it, he felt cold metal. The sensation reminded him of being sprawled on Sad Albert during the Trial of the Grasses. It made his skin crawl. To distract himself from the unwelcome thought Geralt returned to the last memory before all had gone black: Fleeing the bed, his blood dripping on the ground. He could still hear a dripping sound over the almost imperceptible gurgling of water.. It couldn’t be the neck wound the vampire had caused. Not through this thick bandage. He felt very weak, as if he had been bedridden for weeks instead of days. The bones in his arms and legs hurt as if someone had tried out a hammer on them. “You are a challenge, Witcher,” the voice of the old woman said. “For me and my friends.”“Who are you?” It was no more than a hoarse whisper.Instead of an answer, a straw was pushed between his lips. He drank.“Where is the vampire?” he tried again once the straw had stopped providing liquid.“You are safe from her. I… made a mistake. It was not your destiny to die by her bite, I still put too strong a temptation her way.” The old woman removed the straw from his lips.“I don’t believe in destiny,” he stated. There was sarcasm in the woman’s voice when she said: “I realised. You were a hair’s breadth from losing your life. I said you were a challenge. You should sleep and recover. Not talk.”“Are you going to… to experiment on me?” With difficulty he spelled out the fear that had gripped him once he had identified the contraption he was lying on.“Who do you think I am? I am not creating Witchers here. This is simply easier to keep clean than bedsheets and a mattress. Since I have to play nurse on my own, I am not willing to compromise my comfort for yours. It also avoids bedsores.”“Did you find my horse and my sword?” he managed to ask, but fell asleep before an answer was forthcoming. *He woke up in a sweat. He’d just had some terrible nightmare about him and Eskel tied to the metal bed frames they used for the trials at Kaer Morhen, him bringing up all he had ever eaten, while trying to keep an eye on his friend who was vomiting blood. Eskel had taken worse to the trials than he had, but that had saved his friend from being subjected to further mutations. The two days of vomiting had been almost pleasant compared to what had followed for him. The other two boys going through the same ordeal dying horrible, noisy deaths had not helped. Usually, Geralt didn’t remember his dreams. He shivered. It was cold. No wonder, his search for something to cover himself with came up empty. His teeth started to chatter. Could it be that he ran a fever?He strained his ears for any sounds indicating the old woman’s presence. Apart from the constant dripping noise and the gurgling nothing could be heard. He fingered the bandages around his head. His probing fingertips found a knot and pried it open. Geralt was aware that this might not be the best course of action, but he didn’t care. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. The gauze bandage came loose. After the first few loops he had to slow down as he felt the fabric sticking to his skin. Cold air brushed his sweaty forehead. Geralt continued with the loops around his chin and stretched his jaw. On his cheeks he moved very carefully. The skin seemed to peel off with the bandage, but actually it was the gauze catching on his stubble. The last part of the bandage was criss-crossing over the bridge of his nose and eyes. It came off easily enough. He opened his eyes to complete darkness. Widening his pupils didn’t change much, but some outlines became discernible. They revealed his whereabouts to be a cave, not the hut with the wooden floorboards. Carefully he sat up. The muscles in his back protested. Gingerly touching his face, he found it tender in some places and still scabbed over in others. Those harpy droppings had really eaten into his skin. Exposed to the air it quickly dried up and tensed. He already regretted having removed the bandages. Someone with a heartbeat and a musky smell padded into the cave. “Are all Witchers that stubborn?” the werewolf asked, studying Geralt’s face for a moment in the light of a candle he had lit after transforming into his human form. He headed to a table to fetch a small pot, then held it out for the Witcher to pick up. “Smear this on. It will moisturise your skin.”Geralt complied. The ointment did relieve the tension. “Thank you, Garou. That is your name, isn’t it?”The man nodded. “Yes. Baba named me. She is not very imaginative. I used to be called Karl. You are called Geralt, she told me.”“You don’t sound pleased to meet me, Garou. I am no danger to you. I think I owe you my life. I would be repaying that debt badly by accepting a contract on you.”Garou snorted. “A grateful Witcher? Yes, I did save you from Elaine on Full Moon night. Don’t blame her though. She simply couldn’t help her nature. Baba trusted fate too much.”“She told me. I almost cheated destiny, but the wrong way. I am glad I’m still alive. Who is she?”“Just an old woman. You don’t really want to know, trust me.” Garou said with an expression on his face which put an end to the discussion.“An old woman with no heartbeat, but a bruxa and a werewolf for company. Nothing out of the ordinary. Where is she?”“Doing her duty. She will be back in the morning. You should sleep, not talk.” The werewolf crossed his arms over his chest.Geralt didn’t feel like sleeping. He felt like getting up and walking about.“Where are my clothes?” he enquired.Garou laughed out loud.“I won’t walk around like this,” the Witcher bristled.“I wouldn’t put on any clothes right now, if I were you. She first needs to see to you. You want a drink?”Geralt shrugged. “I am missing proper food, but I’d appreciate another cup of tea. I think I’ll manage without a straw now.”The werewolf poured him another cup and carried it over. Geralt downed the liquid greedily and glanced from the empty cup to his legs, wondering if they would carry him as far as the cave entrance to relieve himself if necessary. Which was when it occurred to him that although he had had a couple of drinks, his bladder was not giving any signs of needing relief. He had an inkling that the constant dripping he heard was the reason for it. Baba’s words echoed in his mind: Easier to keep clean on her own…His discomfort. He was incontinent.“I see. I better go back to sleep then.” He said, handing the cup back to Garou. The werewolf shrugged. “Said so…But it is good you feel better.” Garou extinguished the candle.The Witcher heard him padding back towards the cave entrance, supposedly to keep watch. Geralt tried to fall asleep again. The dripping sound made it hard.*He woke to the old woman singing a song about lost love. He opened his eyes, glad he still could and his head had not been wrapped into gauze again. Sitting up, Geralt watched her prepare something at the table. Some light found its way into the cave, it was morning.“Who are you?” he asked her again.She looked up. “I am glad you only unwrapped your bandages and didn’t leave my hospitality. My measures seem to be effective.”He snorted. “Can’t say I care a lot for them, Grandmother. Garou calls you Baba. He wouldn’t mean Baba Yaga, would he?”The old woman carried a small pot over to a fireplace at the back of the cave, hung it from a hook and walked over to the Witcher. She placed a cool, dry hand on his forehead.“Some might call me that. But there is no meaning in that name. Your body is very busy healing the damage the harpy has caused. Good. A little fever can’t hurt. I am preparing a meal. It is time you eat something more substantial again. You need to rebuild your strength.”“I won’t be able to while I’m restricted to lying on this frame,” he complained.Her smile was positively mischievous. “Nobody restricts you to the frame. Just don’t leave the area. If you try, you’ll get the runs.”He swung his legs over the side of the frame. The dripping stopped.“Put on your knickers. I’ve seen enough of you. Then you can sit down here at the table. If you manage to get that far.”Geralt gritted his teeth. He took a couple of tottering steps on shaky legs to where his clothes lay on a shelf. Knickers in hand he continued to the stool. Just as he lowered himself to sit down, his knees buckled. He hit the seat off centre, almost toppling the stool, but managed to catch the edge of the table to steady himself. He pulled on his knickers. The old woman placed a bowl of porridge with bits of fruit in it in front of him. She handed him a spoon.“Tell me about that frame, Witcher.” Her eyes suddenly took on a piercing expression, boring into his skull.Memories flashed unbidden in front of his inner eye: A cave like this, with twelve metal frames, a child secured to each one of them. Elixirs forced down their throats. The first injection, the first death. The second injection, more deaths, some so hideous they made him want to die. Worst of all, his best friend started convulsing and retching. A third injection followed. Its effects were nauseating enough he stopped caring about his surroundings. He was relieved to leave the frame and never wanted to see it again.When they fetched him a few weeks later he was convinced they meant for him to die this time. He fought like a wildcat when they tied him to the metal frame, to no avail. The mages forced a piece of wood between his teeth, placed some contraption holding a strange glass bulb next to him, stuck a needle into his arm and he could only watch sobbing as some dark liquid slowly disappeared into his veins. Straining against his bonds furiously only sped up the pain spreading through his body. Blinding agony, excruciating cramps, his stomach trying to turn inside out. The thought of puking with the wooden gag in his mouth had him concentrate on keeping the contents of his stomach down. When the pain subsided and his body relaxed, he was relieved and utterly furious at the same time. He swore to himself he’d kill the people responsible for this ordeal. Instead the inside of the cave grew blindingly bright, thunderously noisy and an unbearable stench assaulted his nose, accompanied by a splitting headache. Unable to move, all he could do was scream until he passed out. When he regained consciousness, they untied him. All thoughts of taking revenge were a long way off. He was as uncoordinated as a newborn, but the only one going through the enhanced mutations to survive. He finished his porridge although retelling his experience with the frame had completely spoiled his appetite.“Has the experience made you impervious against pain and fear?” the old woman asked.“Witchers lose much of their humanity through the mutations. We have to kill our feelings. They can’t get in the way of our work. We have to be strictly neutral,” Geralt said coldly, his tone broaching no further questions. “What about love?” the old woman inquired.He gritted his teeth.“I stay away from that kind of temptation. The proverbial lone wolf, that’s me.” Geralt looked the woman in the eyes. They were intensely blue and as cold as a glacier.“Who are you?” he tried again. She picked up his empty bowl and rinsed it in a trickle of water at the back of the cave.“What do you feel when you kill?” she asked when she returned.“I don’t enjoy it, if that is what you are trying to get at. I do it because it is my job to protect people from monsters. I can end a creature's suffering. Or to avoid dying myself. But I do not kill if I see another solution. Not everyone deserves to die.”“You think that is your decision?” she asked, her eyebrows raised.“My hand guides the blade. If I can argue the case with words, it can stay sheathed. No divine intervention or destiny needed. Just facts and skill.” He met her cold gaze with an equally chill stare.“What when your skills fail you?”Geralt noted the meaningful look on her face. He hesitated to say: “No witcher dies in his bed”, but had no other answer ready. The silence lasted for several minutes, Baba just looking at him, waiting, while sweat accumulated on his brow. He broke eye-contact, studying the tabletop instead. “I heal quickly. I have my own medication and know how to treat wounds. But sometimes that is not enough. Then I need help from others. If they will help me. Injury is always a risk...” Calmer, he looked back up at the old woman. “So you didn’t expect the bruxa’s attack to kill me?”“No. You are destined to live on. For now.” Her tone sent a shiver down the Witcher’s spine.“Fate was due a sacrifice. It was to be your death or the harpy queen’s.” The old woman smiled eerily.“The harpy queen is dead? The villagers will be happy.”“Indeed, they will,” Baba concurred. With a nod to herself she walked around the table, stopped behind his right shoulder, lightly placing the fingers of her left hand on the nape of his neck. Cold shot through his skin.“It was my privilege to decide,” she stated quietly.The Witcher refrained from asking her again who she was. He suddenly was wary of what she might answer.“My horse and my silver sword. Where are they?” he asked in a husky voice instead.She smiled again. “Your horse is outside, grazing to her heart’s content. Your silver sword is in a safe place.”*Geralt woke up with a start. The sound of an agitated heartbeat emanated from just next to him. No musky smell, actually no smell at all, was discernible. He opened his eyes, dilated his pupils to penetrate the darkness of the hut. A woman was crouching next to his bed, watching him intently. It could not be Baba. This woman was young and beautiful. When he looked at her, she smiled. She tossed back her black hair exposing a slender neck, then reached out to touch his face. The bandages around his ribs and neck had been removed, no longer restricting him. His right hand shot out from under the bed cover and grabbed her arm by the wrist. She grimaced in pain.“You shouldn’t be here. Where is Garou?” he asked her.Instead of answering, she climbed onto him. “Busy elsewhere.”He tried to force her off, but couldn’t muster the strength. She bared her pointy teeth at him. He slipped his left hand under his medallion and lifted it towards her face like a shield.“Your blood smells much sweeter than last time. You’d make a delicious dessert,” she purred, keeping her distance to the medallion.Her eyes drew his gaze. The urge rose in him to succumb to her, drop his medallion. He fought against it, gritting his teeth, as his right hand loosened its grip on her wrist, fingers moving ever so slowly to form Quen. Sweat collected on his brow. Under Elaine’s stare the focus to cast the Sign kept slipping his mind. Even squeezing his eyelids shut was tremendously difficult. Finally he managed, free to cast the Sign. Her weight slid off. A deep growl followed by flapping noises told him she had morphed into a bat and left because the werewolf arrived. Relieved, he dared to look, exhaling breath unconsciously held. A heavily panting Garou entered the hut.“Witcher! Are you still alive?” He sounded genuinely worried, even in his mental projection.Geralt sat up and dissolved the shield. “Yes, Garou. But I am glad you dropped in. She hasn’t lost her appetite for my blood, it seems.”“You need to leave soon. Elaine has not regained her self-control. As you see she managed to mislead me into abandoning you for a moment. In a couple of days, the new Moon will be here. Baba herself will be dangerous then.”*He was a Witcher. His body’s powers of regeneration far outgrew those of a human. For some reason unfathomable to him, when the new Moon came, he still hadn’t recovered completely. A general weakness to his muscles, reflexes and his ability to concentrate remained. Casting signs was a lot more difficult than it should have been. His daily practice sessions didn’t seem to improve his prowess anymore. What he needed was a toss in the sheets. Not a lot of choice in chatting up a woman here: Elaine was the only option. Asking her positively scared him. After the latest attack he even dreaded seeing her at all. Garou was right: Time to leave.That morning he saddled Roach and retrieved his sword. To eliminate the danger of someone accidentally touching it, the weapon had been hoisted up into a tree on a rope. He opened the knot tied around a low branch and carefully lowered the weapon to the ground. The time it had been exposed to the elements along with the blood and uric acid from the harpies had not helped with the keenness of the edge. It was in dire need of whetting, At least the silver had withstood corrosion. He sat down on a tree stump and went about sharpening his sword, unaware of the oversized raven watching intently from above. His thoughts wandered. Why had Elaine almost managed to hypnotise him? Her having drunk so much of his blood could be an answer. Would he be safe from her after leaving? One thing was sure: The further away he got from the hut, the better. Maybe ride to Ellander, which meant going south along the Buina. He anyway should drop by at Nenneke’s to replenish his elixirs. A smile tugged at his lips. Mother Nenneke would not appreciate his train of thought, connecting a toss in the sheets with her temple. She would point out that he’d better drop by at any old brothel, if this were his only reason to visit her. It wouldn’t have been the first time one of her acolytes had taken an interest in him, and it probably wasn’t the last time. Melitele was a patron of pregnant women, so chastity was not required of the adepts. Besides, he might discuss Baba with Nenneke. Maybe the priestess had an idea who exactly he had met here. She was definitely more versed in the knowledge of goddesses. The old woman had to be the personification of a goddess. Or a demon.Sobered up by the thought, he finished whetting his sword, got up and slid it into the scabbard attached to Roach’s saddlebags. After having filled his canteen at the brook which flowed by the hut – the same as was welling out of the back wall of the cave he had been in for a while – he packed some hard cheese, several apples, dry bread and a little dried venison into a waxed linen satchel. The satchel was stashed into one of the saddlebags. This done, Geralt took the reins and led his mare away from the hut. Garou was leaning against a tree in his human form. The werewolf nodded at him. Roach nervously flicked her ears and whipped her tail, but didn’t shy away from the creature. She had gotten used to his presence over the last few weeks. Garou held up a hand. Geralt stopped in his tracks“Elaine sends her regards. She says she’d like to apologise to you.”The Witcher inclined his head a little.“Apology accepted. Maybe our paths will cross again some time. Let it be in a peaceful manner.”He set out walking again, Roach following gladly.When the trees thinned out, Geralt climbed into the saddle, not aware of the big raven that had followed him up in the treetops from the moment he set off. He had already broken a sweat, although he hadn’t been walking for long. Or had he? His brow knitted in a frown. For the life of him he couldn’t recall when and where he had set out on his journey.“Roach, I’m getting old. I can’t even remember where I woke up this morning. The last thing I remember is how I passed out after being dropped by the harpy queen. I don’t feel so good, but I must have spent time recovering somewhere.”He straightened in the saddle, pulled on the reins to turn his horse around. This needed investigating. Nenneke could wait.
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Impossible! Their tracks just vanished a couple of feet into the denser part of the forest. So dense in fact, that he would have seen broken off twigs and trampled undergrowth. Nothing with more bulk than a roe deer could have slipped through this thicket, and even then he should have seen some traces. Someone’s will was at work here. He didn’t recall hearing of leshys in these woods. The raven watched him intently from a branch above.“For a change I wouldn’t mind if you could talk, Roach. One thing is obvious: My benefactor is not keen on me thanking them. Fine. I know when I’m not wanted.”Turning Roach around again, he picked up his old route, still unaware of the raven.He followed the flank of the Kestrel mountains, staying under the trees in the wood. Returning to the village where he had picked up the contract was not on his mind. The villagers had made it clear that they barely had enough to eat for themselves. They more likely than not would chase him away now if he came asking for gold.Roach had not crossed more than a league or two when he reined her in at a small clearing. His legs were shaking, he needed to rest. He slid off the mare, holding onto the saddle to keep from falling. It took a couple of minutes before he dared to unsaddle his horse and remove the saddlebags. After removing the bit and halter Roach was allowed to roam free. Then Geralt slowly walked around the clearing to collect dry twigs for a small fire. He ate some of the food he had brought. Sated, he leaned back on his saddle and dozed for a while, still watched over by the big raven.An alarmed snort from Roach woke him. Dusk had fallen in the meantime. He looked over at the black mare, who held her head high, nostrils flaring. Her fur seemed alive. Twitches ran along her whole body, from the neck over her flanks to her hind legs. But she didn’t back away. His medallion fluttered against his chest. He sat up and rested his right hand lightly on the hilt of his silver sword.A woman stepped out from between the trees. She was beautiful and had a shock of black hair playing around her shoulders when she walked towards him, hips swaying. Either she was a sorceress or another magical creature. Roach’s reaction hinted at the latter. The Witcher didn’t remove his hand from the hilt of the sword. He drew the shiny blade and placed it across his thighs. The woman halted her approach. Somewhere above them, a raven cawed.“That is not a very friendly way to welcome me, Witcher. I’ve come to apologise, after all.”He was supposed to know her? Was she somehow involved in his recovery? Having no recollection of ever having met this stranger, he would not admit to the fact. What did she want to apologise for?“You can voice your apology from where you stand.”He arranged the fingers of his left hand in the Sign of Quen, ready to cast it if needed. However effective that would turn out, feeling refreshed from the rest, but not back to his usual self.The woman stepped closer despite the warning.“I didn’t intend to use so many words in my apology. I had something more physical in mind.”Not in his plans for the evening, not remotely safe to engage in. Not with a woman that made the medallion flutter like a captured bird. He got up, levelling his sword at the woman’s belly. She looked him in the eyes. Above them a raven cawed. The sword dropped out of his numb hand to the ground on his right. The other hand, instead of being used to cast Quen, wrapped itself around the nape of the woman’s neck. He drowned in her eyes. She stepped close and they kissed. For a while, his conscious self took a backseat on the proceedings. When he resurfaced, they were stretched out on his cloak, naked, covered in sweat. His medallion was not around his neck, while he was doing what he had wanted to avoid at all cost and it felt wonderful. * He sensed her movement and opened his eyes. As the fire had burned down, he widened his pupils to watch her get up. She seemed tense.“What’s wrong, Elaine?” he asked her quietly. The bemusement at having made love with a bruxa had not vanished completely yet. He felt the effect it had on him: much more alert and quicker again, wide awake in an instant. The shadowy figure next to him, now in a crouch, pointed at a tree. “Over there. See the birds?”The new moon night was dark, he could barely discern black shapes distributed on the tree’s branches like rags hung up to dry. Ravens. At least twenty of them. While he had seen huge flocks of crows wheel over battlefields or sites of monster attacks, he didn’t recall ever having seen as many ravens in one flock.“What about them?” he inquired.“She is still here, watching over you.”Geralt was confused.“Who are you talking about?”Elaine ignored his question, watching the ravens. The birds unfolded their wings and cawed. She glanced at him.“Don’t do anything aggressive now, or you will die.” Her voice was shaking.“What did you do to me to owe me an apology?” If he didn’t ask now, he’d never learn.“I almost killed you, but you don’t remember.”Elaine looked at him. Her throat muscles contracted as she swallowed. The ravens chose this moment to launch themselves off the tree and at them as one. Geralt curled in on himself, protecting his head with his hands, and cast Quen. Elaine shrieked piercingly, deploying the ultrasound attack of her species to ward off the birds. They still came at her. She was forced to morph into a bat and flee into the woods. The birds pursued the bat into the darkness of the forest. Shaking his head in wonder, Geralt waited around for any signs of Elaine. She seemed to have been driven off for good. With a sigh he threw more branches on the fire and rekindled it with Igni. Looking over at Roach he started. The mare was actually lying on the ground, both front legs folded under her body, her neck lowered and her head stretched out to rest on the ground. Soundly asleep. Maybe he should follow her example and try to sleep until morning? Whatever danger had been around seemed over, judging by Roach and his medallion, back around his neck.
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The touch of coarse hair and soft skin, accompanied by warm breath woke him. Geralt opened his eyes. Roach was exploring his face with her lips. He gently pushed away the inquisitive animal’s head, his hand touching his chin.“You’re right. I need a shave.”This was their last camp before coming up to the temple of Melitele. Geralt therefore did his very best to clean himself and his mare up. The last thing he wanted was to leave a bad impression on Nenneke by looking like the vagrant he felt he was when dropping in. She had spent enough time when he had been her student for a while, impressing the importance of hygiene to help with alchemy and healing on her ward. She also was the closest thing he’d ever had to a mother, despite her protests to the contrary. He didn’t want to disappoint her.As always, she found him while he was strolling through the temple grounds, looking for her.“Geralt! Let’s go to the guest rooms. I want to check on you.”She passed him, leading the way. He followed, his eyebrows raised.“I’m glad to see you too, Nenneke. Actually, I’ve come to replenish my elixirs, not for a check-up.”She opened the door to the guest room he usually used when he was here. The saddlebags went into a corner. Nenneke stood in front of the Witcher and placed her fists on her hips.“Take off your shirt.”He snorted, opening the buckles of his jerkin. “I didn’t come for a check-up,” he repeated.“You never do. Although you should. Either you arrive half dead or because your elixirs need replenishing. But I can see you’ve been through some ordeal. The skin on your face looks far too shiny, there are new scars on your neck.”“Well, you did recognize me. So it can’t be that bad.”The skin on his face was still a bit tender, especially around his eyes, forehead and over the bridge of his nose. He lifted his shirt over his head.“Sit down. I don’t want to crane my neck. What happened? Someone clearly treated these wounds. Someone who knew their trade.”He sat down on a chair while Nenneke looked him over from close up.“I have no recollection of what happened. I was attacked by a harpy, dropped to the ground from some height, then nothing. The next thing I remember is riding through a forest. I reckon I lost more than two weeks of time.”Nenneke tutted. “Careless, Geralt. Harpy droppings would explain the sheen to your skin. I will provide you with some salve for further recovery. The scars on your neck look like tooth marks. If I recall correctly, harpies don’t have fangs.”“That might have been a bruxa. I have no recollection of that either.”He felt her part his hair. Then he heard her suck in air.“Melitele have mercy!”“What’s wrong?” he asked, starting to worry.She walked to the bed, dropped onto it, fixed him in her gaze.“Your wounds have indeed been treated well. They will heal with hardly a trace. What I found at the nape of your neck is something else entirely. I believe you when you say you don’t remember anything. It’s for the better, trust me.”She looked perturbed. Not one of her usual expressions, as far as Geralt knew.“What is it? ““It looks like a cold burn in the form of a crude triskele. Tell me, where did you hunt those harpies?”“On the slopes of the Kestrels in Kaedwen. Why?” He tried to remember what he knew about triskeles.“In some areas the old goddesses are more revered than in others. Have you seen any ravens?”With a wry smile, Geralt recalled the night of the new Moon.“On new moon night, a flock of about twenty of them took an interest.”The priestess of Melitele raised an eyebrow. “That is no reason to grin like a looby. I see now. Someone is dogging your every footstep. But not even you are fast enough at turning around to catch them at it.”“Who is it, Nenneke?” The smile on the Witcher’s face had been replaced with apprehension.“Geralt. I will not go against the will of them that healed you. If they don’t want you to remember, I will not interfere. But I do have the impression your view of the world as only governed by the forces and laws of nature might be challenged at some point.”“It is challenged constantly and nothing so far has convinced me otherwise.”Despite his brave words, he would never turn around to look back. He suddenly knew who was dogging his footsteps. It scared the hell out of him.