“But that was a digression. Where was I? Aha, the massacred settlements. As I expected, the masters of Rissberg took them as acts of demons or energumens possessed by them. But I made a mistake, I went too far. No one would have bothered with one settlement of woodcutters, but we slaughtered several. Bue and Bang did most of the work, but I also contributed as much as I could.

“In the first colony, Yew Trees, or some such, I didn’t exactly distinguish myself. When I saw what Bue and Bang were doing I vomited, puking all over my cloak. It was only fit to be thrown away. A cloak of the best wool, trimmed with silver mink, it cost almost a hundred crowns. But then I did better and better. Firstly, I attired myself suitably, like a labourer. Secondly, I grew fond of those expeditions. It turned out there can be great pleasure in chopping off somebody’s legs and watching the blood spurting from the stump. Or gouging out somebody’s eye. Or tugging a handful of steaming guts from a mutilated belly… I shall be brief. Along with today’s haul it comes to almost two score and ten persons of both sexes of various ages.

“Rissberg decided that I must be stopped. But how? They still believed in my power as a goetic practitioner and feared my demons. And feared infuriating Ortolan, who was enamoured of me. You were meant to be the solution. The Witcher.”

Geralt was breathing shallowly. And growing in optimism. His eyesight was much better and the shivers were abating. He was immune to most known toxins, and the venom of the white scorpion—fatal to an ordinary mortal—was no exception, as it was fortunately turning out. The symptoms—which were dangerous at first—were weakening and fading with time, and it was turning out that the Witcher’s body was capable of neutralising the poison quite quickly. Degerlund didn’t know that, or in his conceitedness was underestimating it.