A couple of hours later, a figure could be seen emerging from the fog, blurred at first like a black smudge against the grey, then gradually sharper as it drew closer. He rode a brown horse with a dark coat and tangled mane.
The rider wore black leather armor that hugged his torso like a second skin, reinforced with silver studs on the shoulders and forearms. His hair, white as snow, fell to his shoulders in loose strands that the dampness of the fog plastered to his face. His beard, equally white, was short and neatly trimmed, framing a firm jaw and a mouth that rarely smiled.
But the most striking feature was his eyes: of an intense amber color, with vertical slits like a cat's, which glowed in the twilight with their own unnatural light. From his neck hung a silver pendant in the shape of a wolf's head, and on his back, crossed over his armor, he carried two sheathed swords.
The man pulled the reins, and the horse stopped with a snort. He dismounted with a fluid motion, his leather boots crushing the damp undergrowth, and walked toward a fallen lump on the ground. It was a boy of barely fifteen or sixteen, his inert body lying among the roots of an oak. An arrow had pierced his right eye, sinking deep into the socket. The blood had already dried, forming a black trail that crossed his cheek.
The man with the amber eyes contemplated the corpse for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then, suddenly, he raised his head.
He had just perceived something.
He sharpened his hearing. Amid the whisper of the fog and the dripping of moisture on the leaves, he distinguished the weak, broken sound of a groan.
He turned toward a group of junipers growing a few meters away, their low, thick branches forming a natural curtain. Quickly, he parted the branches with both hands, and what he found behind them made him frown.
A deep hollow, masked by the junipers and barely visible from outside. On the exposed roots of an ancient pine lay a man of strong build, with disheveled black hair and a beard equally dark, which contrasted brutally with the terrible pallor of his face. He wore a light deerskin caftan, but the garment, now soaked, was stained a deep red that spread from his chest to his side. The smell of blood was thick in that small space.
The witcher jumped into the hollow.
The wounded man opened his eyes. It took them a moment to focus, clouded by pain and blood loss, but when they finally settled on the face before him, a spark of disbelief crossed his pupils.
—Geralt... —he groaned in a broken, gurgling voice—. Oh, gods... I must be dreaming...
Geralt narrowed his feline eyes as he recognized the dying man before him.
—Zywiecki? —his voice, normally flat and controlled, let slip a note of astonishment—. You, here?
—I... —Zywiecki coughed—. Ooooh...
—Don't move.
Geralt knelt beside him. The mud of the hollow stained the knee guards of his armor, but he paid it no attention. His hands, clad in leather gloves, probed the wounded man's torso with surgical precision, seeking the source of the injury.
—Where did they get you? I don't see the arrow...
—It... went through me —Zywiecki's voice was barely a whisper—. I broke off the tip and... pulled it out.
He paused to catch his breath, but the air didn't come easily. A liquid gurgle resonated in his chest.
—Listen, Geralt...
—Quiet, Zywiecki, or you'll drown in your own blood. Your lung is punctured.
Geralt withdrew his hand from the wounded man's chest.
—Damn —he murmured, more to himself than to the wounded man—. We have to get you out of here. What the hell were you doing in Brokilon? This is dryad territory, their sanctuary. No one leaves here alive. Didn't you know?
—Later... —Zywiecki whispered, and spat a blood clot that fell onto his own chest—. I'll tell you later... Now get me out of here... Oh, shit! Carefully... Ooooh...
—I can't. —Geralt straightened up, shaking his head—. You're too heavy...
—Leave me —Zywiecki stammered—. Leave me, there's nothing to be done... But save her... for the gods' sake, save her...
Geralt leaned in again, furrowing his white brows.
—Save who?
—The princess... —Zywiecki's eyelids began to close—. Ooh... Find her, Geralt.
—Damn it, stay still! I'm going to prepare something and get you out of here.
Zywiecki coughed violently. A thick line of blood gushed from his mouth and hung from his beard like a bright red thread. Geralt cursed under his breath, jumped out of the hollow, and scanned the terrain. He needed two young trees. His amber eyes spotted a grove of alders at the edge of the clearing, and he headed there with a brisk step.
Whistling and impact.
The witcher stood still. The arrow, embedded in the trunk of a tree at the exact height of his head, still vibrated. The fletching was made of goshawk feathers. He followed the direction indicated by the ash shaft with his gaze. About fifty paces away, a fallen tree showed its twisted roots toward the sky, still clutching a mass of sandy soil. Strangely, he saw no one who could have shot that arrow.
With a sigh, he raised both arms very slowly.
—Ceádmil! Váan Eithné meáth e Duén Canell! Esseá Gwynbleidd!
He heard the snap of the bowstring. This time the arrow was loosed so he could see it, describing a high arc in the air before embedding itself in the moss two paces from him. A second arrow lodged next to the first almost immediately. Geralt knew that the next one he would not see.
—Meáth Eithné! —he shouted again—. Esseá Gwynbleidd!
—Glaéddyv vort!
A voice like a breath of wind among the leaves echoed in his ears.
Geralt unbuckled his belt with deliberate movements and let the sword fall to the ground, out of his reach. Then he saw her. A dryad emerged soundlessly from behind a fir tree surrounded by junipers, less than ten paces away. She was small and very thin, so much so that the tree trunk seemed wider than she was. Her clothes were a combination of tattered fabric in shades of green and bronze, covered with leaves and pieces of bark that camouflaged her completely with the forest. Her hair, of an olive tone, was tied back with a black scarf, and her face was crossed by stripes painted with walnut shell. The bow remained drawn, aimed directly at his chest.
—Eithné... —Geralt began.
—Tháess aep!
The dryad interrupted him with a shout, without lowering the bow.
—Dunca! —Geralt shouted back—. Braenn! Caemm vort!
The archer who had fired first came out of her hiding place and climbed over the fallen trunk with impossible agility. Her bare feet navigated a pile of dry branches without a single one cracking. Behind him, Geralt heard a barely perceptible whisper, like the rustle of leaves in the wind, and knew that a third dryad had positioned herself behind him.
It was precisely this third one who moved like lightning and snatched the sword from the ground. She had honey-colored hair, tied with a rush cord, and a quiver full of arrows hung from her back.
Meanwhile, the furthest one approached. Her attire was identical to her companions', but her hair was a dull red like roofing tiles, adorned with a garland of clover and heather. She held the bow without drawing it, though the arrow remained nocked on the string.
—T'en thesse in maáth aep Eithné Ilev? —she asked upon reaching him. Her voice was exceptionally melodious, and her eyes, large and black as night—. Ess' Gwynbleidd?
—A... aesseá... —the words of the Brokilon dialect, which in the dryad's mouth sounded like music, stuck in Geralt's throat—. Does any of you speak the common tongue? I don't know it well...