Their garb bore streaks of blood. And their breath stank as though they’d eaten nothing but garlic, shit and dead fish for many days.

“Bueeeeh! Bueeh-heeh-heeh!”

“Bue, Bang, enough laughter, get to work, both of you. Get out, Pastor. But stay close.”

The two giants went out, their great feet slapping. The hunchback addressed as “Pastor” hurried after them.

Sorel Degerlund appeared in the Witcher’s field of view. Scrubbed, hair combed, in fresh clothes and looking effeminate. He slid a chair closer, sat down, with a table piled with weighty tomes and grimoires behind him. He looked at the Witcher, grinning malevolently. At the same time he was playing with and swinging a medallion on a gold chain, which he was winding around a finger.

“I treated you to extract of white scorpion’s venom,” he said detachedly. “Nasty, isn’t it? Can’t move a hand, a leg; not even a finger? Can’t wink or even swallow? But that’s nothing. Uncontrollable movements of your eyeballs and disturbances to your sight will soon follow. Then you’ll feel cramps, really powerful cramps, they’ll probably strain your intercostal muscles. You won’t be able to control the grinding of your teeth, you’re certain to break a few. Then excessive salivation will occur and finally breathing difficulties. If I don’t give you the antidote, you’ll suffocate. But don’t worry, I shall. You’ll live, for now. But I think you’ll soon regret that you’ve survived. I’ll explain what it’s all about. We have time. But first I’d like to watch you turning blue.

“I was observing you on the last day of June, during the audience,” he continued a moment later. “You flaunted your arrogance before us. Before us, people a hundredfold your betters, people you’re no match for. Playing with fire amused and excited you, I saw that. It was then that I determined to prove to you that playing with fire will get you burnt, and interfering in matters of magic and mages has equally painful consequences. You’ll soon find out for yourself.”

Geralt tried to move, but couldn’t. His limbs and entire body were paralysed and insensitive. He felt an unpleasant tingling in his fingers and toes, his face was completely numb and his lips felt like they were laced together. His vision was deteriorating, his eyes were misting over and a cloudy mucus was gluing them together.

Degerlund crossed his legs and swung the medallion. There was a symbol on it, an emblem, in blue enamel. Geralt didn’t recognise it. His eyesight was getting worse. The sorcerer hadn’t lied, the disturbance to his sight was intensifying.

“The thing is, you see, that I plan to go far in the sorcerers’ hierarchy,” Degerlund continued casually. “In my designs and plans I’m relying on Ortolan, who’s known to you from your visit to Rissberg and the memorable audience.”