Sorel Degerlund unpeeled and stripped the intestine from his hand. He stopped screaming and just groaned, shaking. He got up, first onto his hands and knees and then onto his feet. He lurched out of the shelter, looked about him, shrieked and made to bolt. The Witcher grabbed him by the collar, set him in one place and pushed him down to his knees.

“What… has…” Degerlund mumbled, still shaking. “What… what happened… here?”

“I think you know.”

The sorcerer swallowed loudly.

“How… How did I end up here? Nothing… I don’t remember anything… I don’t remember anything. Nothing!”

“I don’t actually believe you.”

“The invocation…” Degerlund seized his face in his hands. “I invoked it… And it appeared. In the pentagram, in the chalk circle… And entered… Entered me.”

“Not for the first time, I imagine, eh?”

Degerlund sobbed. Somewhat theatrically, Geralt couldn’t help thinking. He regretted that he hadn’t surprised the energumen before the demon had abandoned him. His regret, he realised, wasn’t very rational. He was aware how dangerous a confrontation with a demon could be, and he should have been glad he’d avoided it. But he wasn’t glad. Because at least he would have known what to do.

It just had to happen to me, he thought. And not Frans Torquil and his troop. The constable wouldn’t have had any qualms or scruples. Bloodied, caught with the entrails of his victim in his fist, the sorcerer would have had a noose around his neck at once and would have been dangling from the handiest bough. Neither hesitations nor doubts would have held Torquil back. It wouldn’t have bothered Torquil that the effeminate and scrawny sorcerer was absolutely incapable of slaughtering so many people in such a short time that his blood-soaked clothing hasn’t managed to dry out or stiffen. And wouldn’t have been able to tear a child apart with his bare hands. No, Torquil wouldn’t have had any qualms.

But I do.

Pinety and Tzara were sure I wouldn’t.

“Don’t kill me…” Degerlund whined. “Don’t kill me, Witcher… I will never… Never more—”

“Shut up.”

“I swear I’ll never—”

“Shut up. Are you conscious enough to use magic? To summon the sorcerers from Rissberg here?”

“I have a sigil… I can… I can teleport myself to Rissberg.”

“Not alone. With me. And no tricks. Don’t try to stand up, stay on your knees.”

“I must stand up. And you… If the teleportation is to work, you must stand close to me. Very close.”

“Why exactly? Come on, what are you waiting for? Get that amulet out.”

“It’s not an amulet. I said, it’s a sigil.”