“Fuck,” said Shevlov, staring disbelievingly at the blade, which had broken a few inches above the gilded cross guard.

“And not a notch on mine!” Escayrac raised his sword. “Ha, ha, ha! Not a notch! Nor even a mark.”

Fryga giggled like a schoolgirl. Ligenza bleated like a billy goat. The rest guffawed.

“Witcher sword?” snorted Sperry. “Cuts through like noodles? You’re the fucking noodle.”

“It’s…” Shevlov pursed his lips. “It’s sodding scrap. It’s trash… And you…”

He tossed away the remains of the sword, glowered at Geralt and pointed an accusing finger at him.

“You’re a fraudster. An imposter and a fraudster. You feign to be a witcher, and wield such trash… You carry junk like this instead of a decent blade? How many good people have you deceived, I wonder? How many paupers have you fleeced, swindler? Oh, you’ll confess your peccadillos in Findetann, the starosta will see to that!”

He panted, spat and stamped his foot.

“To horse! Let’s get out of here!”

They rode away, laughing, singing and whistling. The settler and his family gloomily watched them go. Geralt saw their lips moving. It wasn’t difficult to guess what fate and what mishaps they were wishing on Shevlov and company.

The settler couldn’t have expected in his wildest dreams that his wishes would come true to the letter. And that it would happen so swiftly.

* * *

They arrived at the crossroads. The highway leading westwards along the ravine was rutted by wheels and hooves; the carpenters’ wagons had clearly gone that way. As did the company. Geralt walked behind Fryga’s horse, tied to a rope attached to the pommel of her saddle.

The horse of Shevlov—who was riding at the front—whinnied and reared up.

Something suddenly flared on the side of the ravine, lit up and became a milky, iridescent globe. Then the globe vanished and a strange group appeared in its stead. There were several figures embraced and intertwined together.

“What the devil?” cursed Poker and rode over to Shevlov, who was quietening down his horse. “What’s going on?”

The group separated. Into four figures. A slim, long-haired and slightly effeminate man. Two long-armed giants with bow legs. And a hunched dwarf with a great double-limbed steel arbalest.

“Buueh-hhhrrr-eeeehhh-bueeeeh! Bueeh-heeh!”

“Draw your weapons!” yelled Shevlov. “Draw your weapons, stand your ground!”

First one and then the other bowstring of the great arbalest clanged. Shevlov died at once from a bolt to the head. Poker looked down at his belly, through which a bolt had just passed, before he fell from his saddle.

“Fight!” The company drew their swords as one. “Fight!”

Geralt had no intention of standing idly by to wait for the result of the engagement. He formed his fingers in the Igni Sign and burned through the rope binding his arms. He caught Fryga by the belt and hurled her to the ground. And leaped into the saddle.