Blood of Elves by Andrzej Sapkowski

unending black tunnel dotted with columns and arcades. Roach stepped confidently and willingly, ignoring the impenetrable darkness, and her horseshoes rang brightly against the floor.
    In front of them, at the end of the tunnel, a straight, vertical line suddenly flared with a red light. Growing taller and wider it became a door beyond which was a faint glow, the flickering brightness of torches stuck in iron mounts on the walls. A black figure stood framed in the door, blurred by the brightness.
    “Who comes?” Ciri heard a menacing, metallic voice which sounded like a dog’s bark. “Geralt?”
    “Yes, Eskel. It’s me.”
    “Come in.”
    The witcher dismounted, took Ciri from the saddle, stood her on the ground and pressed a bundle into her little hands which she grabbed tightly, only regretting that it was too small for her to hide behind completely.
    “Wait here with Eskel,” he said. “I’ll take Roach to the stables.”
    “Come into the light, laddie,” growled the man called Eskel. “Don’t lurk in the dark.”
    Ciri looked up into his face and barely restrained her frightened scream. He wasn’t human. Although he stood on two legs, although he smelled of sweat and smoke, although he wore ordinary human clothes, he was not human. No human can have a face like that, she thought.
    “Well, what are you waiting for?” repeated Eskel.
    She didn’t move. In the darkness she heard the clatter of Roach’s horseshoes grow fainter. Something soft and squeaking ran over her foot. She jumped.
    “Don’t loiter in the dark, or the rats will eat your boots.”
    Still clinging to her bundle Ciri moved briskly towards the light. The rats bolted out from beneath her feet with a squeak. Eskel leaned over, took the package from her and pulled back her hood.
    “A plague on it,” he muttered. “A girl. That’s all we need.”
    She glanced at him, frightened. Eskel was smiling. She saw that he was human after all, that he had an entirely human face, deformed by a long, ugly, semi-circular scar running from the corner of his mouth across the length of his cheek up to the ear.
    “Since you’re here, welcome to Kaer Morhen,” he said. “What do they call you?”
    “Ciri,” Geralt replied for her, silently emerging from the darkness. Eskel turned around. Suddenly, quickly, wordlessly, the witchers fell into each other’s arms and wound their shoulders around each other tight and hard. For one brief moment.
    “Wolf, you’re alive.”
    “I am.”
    “All right.” Eskel took a torch from its bracket. “Come on. I’m closing the inner gates to stop the heat escaping.”
    They walked along the corridor. There were rats here, too; they flitted under the walls, squeaked from the dark abyss, from the branching passages, and skittered before the swaying circle of light thrown by the torch. Ciri walked quickly, trying to keep up with the men.
    “Who’s wintering here, Eskel? Apart from Vesemir?”
    “Lambert and Coën.”
    They descended a steep and slippery flight of stairs. A gleam was visible below them. Ciri heard voices, detected the smell of smoke.
    The hall was enormous, and flooded with light from a huge hearth roaring with flames which were being sucked up into the heart of the chimney. The centre of the hall was taken up by an enormous, heavy table. At least ten people could sit around that table. There were three. Three humans. Three witchers, Ciri corrected herself. She saw nothing but their silhouettes against the fire in the hearth.
    “Greetings, Wolf. We’ve been waiting for you.”
    “Greetings, Vesemir. Greetings, lads. It’s good to be home again.”
    “Who have you brought us?”
    Geralt was silent for a moment, then put his hand on Ciri’s shoulder and lightly pushed her forward. She walked awkwardly, hesitantly, huddled up and hunched, her head lowered. I’m frightened, she thought. I’m very frightened. When Geralt found me, when he took me with him, I thought the fear wouldn’t come