4

 The lower the sun fell at its zenith, the louder Bajdel complained. The sap was a pain in his ass, he hadn't touched moonshine in hours, hadn't washed in two days, and hadn't touched a single girl. In the poet's opinion, this state of affairs meant a shameful tragedy. 3jaja wasn't too happy either. "We're just wandering around towns all the time," he complained. "And the forests?"

The forests would have to wait, as would the hedgehogs eager to cross the road safely. The road was incredibly crowded. All sorts of gamblers, cutthroats, perverts, murderers, and above all, peasants were heading towards Bierkowo. Most of them wore red and white sheep's wool scarves around their necks. Everyone shouted joyfully, jostled each other, and tried to tear off each other's purses. Here and there, amidst the human bustle, steel-clad dwarves with axes painted red and white wives wandered through. Red like blood, white like the tears of virgins, the would-be wives of boys who would never return from war.

So war was brewing, and people were emigrating to the lowlands to wait it out safely. They reveled in their last moments of freedom and shouted battle slogans to spur the soldiers on. A sad sight.

"3 eggs, and are we supposed to prevent the war?" asked Bajdel, as apprehensive as ever.

"Don't be afraid, my friend," the witcher consoled. "The war won't come, because we'll convince the dwarven king that it's not worth fighting. Just look at the faces of these women and children; even dwarves have hearts... well, of stone, but they do, don't they?"

The poet had no further questions. He had just come up with an idea for a funny propaganda song about the enemy's hearts. He would describe them as hard as steel, worn on their hearts, and as insensitive as axes, biting into the soft bodies of young recruits. Of course, he would also present his pacifist views and describe how beautiful women are raped during war. Then no one would go off to war to protect their wives and daughters, and the musician would have a larger audience in the taverns.

"But boring," sighed 3jaja, "how much longer are we going to drag this out?" Something interesting could happen now.

At that moment, the gods smiled and decided to fulfill his request. Let those below finally know they were listening. Especially since it's easier to fulfill the wish of this green-haired man than of those women who pray for a son for twenty years and are virgins. The count smiled warmly.

The witcher, on the other hand, experienced a feeling familiar to everyone. His stomach ached, and a certain thin, brown substance had an irresistible urge to burst forth. In less civilized peoples, it's called diarrhea.

"I have to get into the bushes!" he groaned.

Bajdel didn't question this request. He wasn't feeling well after the goat cheese from Rzeper's pantry, either, but experience with various quality drinks had taught his intestines resilience. Without a word, he steered his faithful gelding toward the roadside. Psotka and the poet's horse caused quite a stir, momentarily halting traffic and provoking hostile reactions from the people. Before their masters were lynched by the ruthless mob, however, the mounts safely reached the lush grass.

3jaja quickly jumped from the mare and, disregarding his surroundings, removed his trousers, immediately filling the air with a familiar scent. Like a green arrow from a slender elven bow, the witcher darted into the nearest bushes. Unfortunately, the foliage of the plant was considerably sparse, so it didn't offer much cover.

Many years later, when the poet recounted this incident, he said, "Then the witcher crawled into the bushes, but they were so bald and everything was visible. When I looked at him, my jaw dropped. You know, I really liked what was best about him, and sooooo long!"

At the time, the lecherous interlocutors thought 3jaja had an unusually long stake. Does everyone have to think of only one thing? Unfortunately, most humanoids think a stake is longer than a leg, because the poor guys probably never measured, and women don't listen to Bajdel. And he meant that his friend had shapely and muscular legs.

3jaja, unaware of the snooping, was just finishing his bowel movement. He spread characteristic smells and even more characteristic sounds around him. From time to time, he sighed delightfully and sniffed. Finally, he yelled something incomprehensible, staggered, narrowly avoiding contact with the aromatic substance, and finally, straightening up, with a look of relief on his face, stood before Bajdel.

"We can go,

" he declared. "No," said the poet, "you'll get thirsty again, and we'll be like moose searching for a secluded spot. Stay a moment and wait until he takes you again."

The witcher sat down under a birch tree and gave himself over to his thoughts. He was forced to wander into the bushes several more times, until his anus finally ached and he couldn't wipe himself with the leaves. He still felt something sticky between his buttocks, and he walked, rubbing his knees together to lessen the stain on his trousers. On top of that, his stomach still ached. It didn't matter, he thought, every hero has a moment of weakness. As long as he protected the world, the rest didn't matter!

When they decided to continue their journey, the sky began to cloud over. The wind picked up, and darkness began to descend on the world in a gray wave. Another night was drawing in, another lover wept alone on her pallet, another child prayed to the Face before sleep to destroy his teacher. Two riders trotted along the heavy fog-shrouded road, hurrying towards the city where they should have been long ago, where an event would soon unfold that would shape future history—a history not entirely glorious, yet utterly human. No one remained on the road, only the hedgehogs could finally return home and explain to their mothers that there was a traffic jam and they had no way to get through. At the same time, the smell of beer washed away from them.

Bierkowo didn't sleep that night. Colorful processions of joyful people stretched through the streets, the taverns and inns were full of tipsy merrymakers, shouting and babbling to each other. No one even noticed the two belated creatures, slinking past on thoroughbred mounts. Only poorly shod hooves clattering on the cobblestones announced to the world that someone was slipping past. And they continued to slip past for a long time, as they couldn't find any room in any of the inns. Every conversation they had with the innkeeper was the same.

"Can we stay here overnight?" Bajdel asked. 3jaja always hid around the corner, as his appearance could effectively discourage people.

"No way," the answer was always the same.

"Couldn't we go to the attic or the stable or under the table here? Wherever... we have gold, we can pay well. I can also sing beautiful songs, you know, I'm a renowned bard.

" "Even if you were the mother of the Face, heavily pregnant, I still wouldn't let you in. There's no room, that's all. Just look at it, people on people, and when they're all drunk and sprawled on the floor, there won't be any way to get through. I'm sorry."

The poet would then make a sad face and with a theatrical gesture wipe an imaginary tear from his cheek. Unfortunately, these days people are insensitive to the suffering of others. They think only of profit or refuse to sacrifice themselves for others.

After visiting all the available establishments in the city, the friends' souls felt heavy, as they had lost all hope. And suddenly, before them, as if from nowhere, a gray, inconspicuous, crooked building loomed, as if it had only briefly squatted in a corner and was about to set off into the world. Even from a distance, it reeked of sour beer, burnt meat, and fish soup. Its walls were homely speckled with urine stains. Bajdel felt almost at home here. The only thing missing was the presence of a few women of easy virtue. He was about to leave his faithful steed when 3jaja stopped him with a barely perceptible nod in the darkness.

"I'll go," he offered. "In a den like this, they'll definitely look more favorably on a tough warrior than on a fancy-ass sly guy like you. Besides, I'll have to try it sometime... and if I say I'm a good druid, I'll have plants growing on my head."

The witcher wrapped his goat's cloak around himself and hesitantly entered the sanctuary. Darkness reigned inside. Not a single eye shone, not even the glowworms darted to flit under the ceiling. But worse than the darkness was the stench, the strong stench of sweat and fish, nauseating. 3jaja would have probably vomited if all the goat cheese hadn't escaped through the other side. The witcher, brushing Geralt's hilt with his fingertips, stepped deeper into the hall. The stench intensified. He could also hear the quickened breathing of the other guests and hushed conversations. Finally, the innkeeper spoke up:

"What do you think, stalking honest people like that in the dark, in the middle of the night, and groping each other with swords? Show me your face and tell me what your intentions are, so I don't have to kick you out!" he thundered.

"Easy, I'm already standing and letting myself be searched," 3jaja said carefully.

"Pervert! A pervert has come here! Zara will murder us, or worse!" someone yelled.

"People, calm down!" the witcher shouted over the other man. "I came here because I want to spend the night. If anyone has something against me, they should say 'goodbye,' instead of yelling and calling me a lecher. It's not my fault it's dark here. I should have lit some candles when your torches went out." "

I'm sorry," the innkeeper muttered. "But it's not our fault." All sorts of candles, torches, oil lamps, flashlights, and other canisters have long since been bought, so we're sitting in the dark. At least it's quiet, and no one dares touch the girls, lest they run into some old man's flabby ass. We'll give you a place in the stable on some clean hay. You'll only have Maurice the donkey for company; he won't nibble on your hands, don't worry. It's the only place left. And with this pervert, it's just to see if anyone's honest, because if a thief, murderer, bandit, or some other witch comes along, he'll quickly run away because he thinks we've caught him. And all's quiet.

"But I still have a mare and a companion with a horse... Will we fit?

" "Yes, indeed. Just don't give Maurice anything to eat, or he'll break wind again and scare away the guests."