tried to take no notice of the stops the enchantress's ailment necessitated. Triss, as pale as death, beaded with sweat and painfully contorted, tried to continue riding for several hours longer, but at about midday, and having spent an abnormally long time in the bushes by the road, she was no longer in any condition to sit on a saddle. Ciri tried to help her but to no avail – the enchantress, unable to hold on to the horse's mane, slid down her mount's flank and collapsed to the ground.
They picked her up and laid her on a cloak. Geralt unstrapped the saddle-bags without a word, found a casket containing some magic elixirs, opened it and cursed. All the phials were identical and the mysterious signs on the seals meant nothing to him.
'Which one, Triss?'
'None of them,' she moaned, with both hands on her belly. 'I can't… I can't take them.'
'What? Why?'
'I'm sensitised-'
'You? A magician?'
'I'm allergic!' she sobbed with helpless exasperation and
despairing anger. 'I always have been! I can't tolerate elixirs! I can treat others with them but can only treat myself with amulets.'
'Where is the amulet?'
'I don't know.' She ground her teeth. 'I must have left it in Kaer Morhen. Or lost it-'
'Damn it. What are we going to do? Maybe you should cast a spell on yourself?'
'I've tried. And this is the result. I can't concentrate because of this cramp…'
'Don't cry.'
'Easy for you to say!'
The witcher got up, pulled his saddle-bags from Roach's back and began rummaging through them. Triss curled up, her face contracted and her lips twisted in a spasm of pain.
'Ciri…'
'Yes, Triss?'
'Do you feel all right? No… unusual sensations?'
The girl shook her head.
'Maybe it's food poisoning? What did I eat? But we all ate the same thing… Geralt! Wash your hands. Make sure Ciri washes her hands…'
'Calm down. Drink this.'
What is it?'
'Ordinary soothing herbs. There's next to no magic in them so they shouldn't do you any harm. And they'll relieve the cramps.'
'Geralt, the cramps… they're nothing. But if I run a fever… It could be… dysentery. Or paratyphoid.'
'Aren't you immune?'
Triss turned her head away without replying, bit her lip and curled up even tighter. The witcher did not pursue the question.
Having allowed her to rest for a while they hauled the enchantress onto Roach's saddle. Geralt sat behind her, supporting her with both hands, while Ciri rode beside them, holding the reins and leading Triss's gelding. They did not even manage a mile. The enchantress kept falling from Geralt's hands; she could not stay in the saddle. Suddenly she started trembling convulsively, and
instantly burned with a fever. The gastritis had grown worse. Geralt told himself that it was an allergic reaction to the traces of magic in his witcher's elixir. He told himself that. But he did not believe it.
'Oh, sir,' said the sergeant, 'you have not come at a good time. Indeed, you could not have arrived at a worse moment.'
The sergeant was right. Geralt could neither contest it nor argue.
The fort guarding the bridge, where there would usually be three soldiers, a stable-boy, a toll-collector and – at most – a few passers-by, was swarming with people. The witcher counted over thirty lightly armed soldiers wearing the colours of Kaedwen and a good fifty shield bearers, camping around the low palisade. Most of them were lying by campfires, in keeping with the old soldier's rule which dictates that you sleep when you can and get up when you're woken. Considerable activity could be seen through the thrown-open gates – there were a lot of people and horses inside the fort, too. At the top of the little leaning lookout tower two soldiers were on duty, with their crossbows permanently at the ready. On the worn bridge trampled by horses' hooves, six peasant carts and two merchant wagons were parked. In the enclosure, their heads lowered sadly over the mud and manure, stood umpteen unyoked oxen.
'There was an assault on the fort – last night.' The sergeant anticipated his question. 'We just got here in time with the relief troops – otherwise we'd have found nothing here but charred earth.'
'Who were your attackers? Bandits? Marauders?'
The soldier shook his head, spat and looked at Ciri and Triss, huddled in the saddle.
'Come inside,' he said, 'your Enchantress is going to fall out of her saddle any minute now. We already have some wounded men there; one more won't make much difference.'
In the yard, in an open, roofed shelter, lay several people with their wounds dressed with bloodied bandages. A little further, between the palisade fence and a wooden well with a sweep, Geralt
made out six still bodies wrapped in sacking from which only pairs of feet in worn, dirty boots protruded.
'Lay her there, by the wounded men.' The soldier indicated the shelter. 'Oh sir, it truly is bad luck she's sick. A few of our men were hurt during the battle and we wouldn't turn down a bit of magical assistance. When we pulled the arrow out of one of them its head stuck in his guts. The lad will peter out by the morning, he'll peter out like anything… And the enchantress who could have saved him is tossing and turning with a fever and seeking help from us. A bad time, I say, a bad time-'
He broke off, seeing that the witcher could not tear his eyes from the sacking-wrapped bodies.
'Two guards from here, two of our relief troops and two… two of the others,' he said, pulling up a corner of the stiff material. 'Take a look, if you wish.'
'Ciri, step away.'
'I want to see, too!' The girl leaned out around him, staring at the corpses with her mouth open.
'Step away, please. Take care of Triss.'
Ciri huffed, unwilling, but obeyed. Geralt came closer.
'Elves,' he noted, not hiding his surprise.
'Elves,' the soldier confirmed. 'Scoia'tael.'
'Who?'
'Scoia'tael,' repeated the soldier. 'Forest bands.'
'Strange name. It means 'Squirrels', if I'm not mistaken?'
'Yes, sir. Squirrels. That's what they call themselves in elvish. Some say it's because sometimes they wear squirrel tails on their fur caps and hats. Others say it's because they live in the woods and eat nuts. They're getting more and more troublesome, I tell you.'
Geralt shook his head. The soldier covered the bodies again and wiped his hands on his tunic.
'Come,' he said. 'There's no point standing here. I'll take you to the commandant. Our corporal will take care of your patient if he can. He knows how to sear and stitch wounds and set bones so maybe he knows how to mix up medicines and what not too. He's a brainy chap, a mountain-man. Come, witcher.'
In the dim, smoky toll-collector's hut a lively and noisy discussion was underway. A knight with closely cropped hair wearing a habergeon and yellow surcoat was shouting at two merchants and a greeve, watched by the toll- collector, who had an indifferent, rather gloomy expression, and whose head was wrapped in bandages.
'I said, no!' The knight thumped his fist on the rickety table and stood up straight, adjusting the gorget across his chest. 'Until the patrols return, you're not going anywhere! You are not going to roam the highways!'
Ts to be in Daevon in two days!' the greeve yelled, shoving a short notched stick with a symbol branded into it under the knight's nose. 'I have a transport to lead! The bailiff's going to have me head if it be late! I'll complain to the voivode!'
'Go ahead and complain,' sneered the knight. 'But I advise you to line your breeches with straw before you do because the voivode can do a mean bit of arse-kicking. But for the time being I give the orders here – the voivode
