Geralt decided on Findetann, which meant heading north. For more or less in that direction lay Novigrad, where he had to get to if he was to recover his swords, and by the fifteenth of July at that.

After around an hour of brisk marching he walked right into what he had so wanted to avoid.

* * *

There was a thatched peasant homestead and several shacks close to the logging site. The fact that something was occurring there was being announced by the loud barking of a dog and the furious clucking of poultry. The screaming of a child and the crying of a woman. And swearing.

He approached, cursing under his breath both his ill luck and his scruples.

Feathers were flying and an armed man was tying a fowl to his saddle. Another was thrashing a peasant cringing on the ground with a scourge. Another was struggling with a woman in torn clothing and the child hanging on to her.

He walked up and without thinking twice or speaking, seized the raised hand holding the scourge and twisted. The armed man howled. Geralt shoved him against the wall of a hen house. He hauled the other one away from the woman by the collar and pushed him up against the fence.

“Begone,” he stated curtly. “This minute.”

He quickly drew his sword as a sign for them to treat him in accordance with the gravity of the situation. And remind them emphatically of the possible consequences of wrong-headed behaviour.

One of the armed men laughed loudly. The other joined in, taking hold of his sword hilt.

“Who are you assaulting, vagabond? Do you seek death?”

“Begone, I said.”

The armed soldier tying on the fowl turned around from the horse. And was revealed to be a woman. A pretty one, in spite of her unpleasantly narrowed eyes.

“Had enough of life?” It turned out the woman was able to contort her lips even more grotesquely. “Or perhaps you’re retarded? Perhaps you can’t count? I’ll help you. There’s only one of you, there are three of us. Meaning you’re outnumbered. Meaning you ought to turn around and sod off as fast as your legs can carry you. While you still have any.”

“Begone. I won’t say it again.”

“Aha. Three people are a piece of cake to you. And a dozen?”

The sound of hooves thudding. The Witcher looked around. Nine armed riders. Pikes and bear spears were pointed at him.

“You! Good-for-nothing! Drop your sword!”

He ignored the instruction and dodged towards the hen house to have some protection at his back.

“What’s going on, Fryga?”