Geralt was hit by two stakes, one in the shoulder, the other in the hip. The impact paralysed him, totally numbing him in an instant. He choked on water and began to sink.

Someone seized him in a painful, iron grip and snatched him upwards, towards the surface and the light. He groped around and felt a powerful bicep as hard as rock. The strongman was pumping with his legs, forging through the water like a triton, shoving away the wood floating around and the drowned corpses spinning in the turmoil. Geralt came up right by the terrace. Shouts and cheers from above. Arms reaching out.

A moment later the Witcher was lying in a pool of water, coughing, spluttering and retching onto the terrace. Dandelion knelt beside him, as white as a sheet. Mozaïk was on his other side. Also pale-faced. But with trembling hands. Geralt sat up with difficulty.

“Antea?”

Dandelion shook his head and looked away. Mozaïk lowered her head onto her lap. He saw the sobbing shaking her shoulders.

His rescuer was sitting beside him. The strongman. Or to be more precise, strongwoman. The untidy bristles on the shaven head. The belly like pork shoulder covered in netting. The shoulders like a wrestler’s. The calves like a discus thrower’s.

“I owe you my life.”

“Don’t be soft…” said the commandant of the guardhouse, waving a dismissive arm. “Think nothing of it. And anyway, you’re an arse, and me and the girls are pissed off with you about that rumpus. So you’d better steer clear of us, or you’ll get a good hiding. Is that clear?”

“Indeed.”

“But I have to admit,” said the commandant, hawking noisily and shaking water from an ear. “You’re a courageous arse. A courageous arse, Geralt of Rivia.”

“What about you? What’s your name?”

“Violetta,” said the commandant and suddenly turned gloomy. “What about her? That one…”

“Antea Derris.”

“Antea Derris,” she repeated, grimacing. “Pity.”

“Pity.”

More people came to the terrace, it became crowded. The danger had passed, the sky had brightened up, the gale had stopped blowing, the pennants were hanging limp. The sea was calm, the water had receded. Leaving devastation and disarray. And corpses which the crabs were already scuttling over.

Geralt stood up with difficulty. Every movement and every breath returned as a throbbing pain in his side. His knee was aching intensely. Both his shirtsleeves had been torn off, he couldn’t recall exactly when he had lost them. The skin on his left elbow, right shoulder and probably his shoulder blade had been rubbed raw. He was bleeding from numerous shallow cuts. All in all, nothing serious, nothing he needed to worry about.