“And categorised you correctly?” Shevlov snorted. “As monsters? So, you were lucky. I jest. Because the matter is simple, it seems to me. When serving in the army I heard something quite different about witchers. They hire themselves out for everything: to spy, to guard, even to assassinate. They called them the ‘Cats.’ Trent saw this one here in Maribor, in Temeria. Meaning he’s a Temerian hireling, employed regarding the border posts. They warned me in Findetann about Temerian mercenaries and are promising a bounty for any caught. So, let’s take him in fetters to Findetann, turn him in to the commandant and claim the reward. Come on, tie him up. What are you waiting for? Are you afraid? He’s not offering resistance. He knows what we’d do to the little peasants if he tries anything.”

“And who’s going to fucking touch him? If he’s a wizard?”

“Knock on wood!” Ligenza spat on the ground.

“Lily-livered cowards!” yelled Fryga, untying the strap of her saddle bags. “Yellow-bellies! I’ll do it, since no one here has the balls!”

Geralt allowed himself to be tied up. He decided to comply. For the time being.

Two ox wagons trundled out of the forest, wagons laden with posts and elements of some kind of wooden construction.

“Someone go to the carpenters and the bailiff.” Shevlov pointed. “Send them back. We’ve sunk enough posts, it’ll suffice for now. We shall take a rest here, meanwhile. Search the farmyard for anything fit as fodder for the horses. And some vittals for us.”

Ligenza picked up and examined Geralt’s sword, Dandelion’s acquisition. Shevlov snatched it out of his hand. He hefted it, wielded it and whirled it around.

“You were lucky we came in force,” he said. “He would have carved you up no problem: you, Fryga and Floquet. Legends circulate about these witcher swords. The best steel, oftentimes folded and forged, folded and forged again. And they’re protected by special spells. Thus achieving exceptional tensile strength and sharpness. A witcher edge, I tell you, pierces armour plate and mail like a linen shift, and cuts through every other blade like noodles.”

“That cannot be,” stated Sperry. Like many of the others, his whiskers were dripping with the cream they had found in the cottage and guzzled. “Not like noodles.”

“I can’t believe it either,” added Fryga.

“Difficult to believe something like that,” threw in Poker.

“Really?” Shevlov assumed a swordsman’s pose. “Face me, one of you, and we’ll find out. Come on, who’s willing? Well? Why has it gone so quiet?”

“Very well.” Escayrac stepped forward and drew his sword. “I shall face you. What do I care? We shall see whether… En garde, Shevlov.”

“En garde. One, two… three!”

The swords struck each other with a clang. The metal whined mournfully as it snapped. Fryga ducked as a broken piece of blade whistled past her temple.