"Fortunately, they left me alone. They didn't consider witchers to be humans, not quite. We were vatt'ghern, not dh'oine. A different race from either, although elves can be made witchers, too."

Geralt was, somehow, comforted that non-integrated elves were arrogant wherever they came from. They were a proud people. It was irritating, but it also deserved a certain kind of distant respect.

The mention of dwarves living underground though, that was a bit weirder. Maybe they'd done that millennia ago, before the arrival of elves and men, but in Geralt's time they'd lived in their above-ground cities in Mahakam like anyone else, and plied their trades in every blacksmith and bank on the continent.

Once they entered the forest, Geralt felt the hush that fell over the group, especially from Krem. The man was whispering prayers under his breath. That was good. Geralt didn't believe in gods, but he always remembered Nenneke's words.

If your lack of faith made any difference, it would be the first proof I've ever heard of that a lack of faith had any power at all.

Let him pray for all of them.

From somewhere in the wood came a deep, disturbing, booming noise. It reverberated in Geralt's bones and made his hackles rise. It was followed by strange, wooden knocking, which echoed in the dark trees. He followed it, and the smell of fiend dung, as well as he could.

The trees blocked most of the breeze. The trees were eerily still.