‘I challenge you!’ Cicada repeated, blanching and flushing by turns. ‘Do you hear me, you witcher pox? What else do I have to do to you? Spit in your ugly face?’

‘Go ahead and spit.’

Cicada stopped and indeed took a breath, pursing his lips to spit. He was watching the Witcher’s eyes, not his hands, and that was a mistake. Geralt, still not slowing down, struck him very fast, without a backswing, just flexing from the knees, his fist encased in the spiked glove. He punched Cicada right in the mouth, straight in his twisted lips. They split, exploding like mashed cherries. The Witcher crouched and struck once again, in the same place, this time from a short backswing, feeling the fury spilling from him with the force and the momentum. Cicada, whirling around with one foot in the mud and the other in the air, spat blood and splashed onto his back into a puddle. The Witcher, hearing behind him the hiss of a sword blade in the scabbard, stopped and turned sinuously around, his hand on his sword hilt.

‘Well,’ he said in a voice trembling with anger, ‘be my guests.’

The one who had drawn the sword looked him in the eyes. Briefly. Then he averted his gaze. The others began to fall back. First slowly, then more and more quickly. Hearing it, the man with the sword also stepped back, noiselessly moving his lips. The furthest away of them turned and ran, splattering mud. The others froze to the spot, not attempting to come closer.

Cicada turned over in the mud and dragged himself up on his elbows. He mumbled, hawked and spat out something white amid a lot of red. As Geralt passed he casually kicked him in the face, shattering his cheekbone, and sending him splashing into the puddle again.

He walked on without looking back.

Istredd was already by the well and stood leaning against it, against the wooden cover, green with moss. He had a sword in his belt. A magnificent, light, Terganian sword with a half-basket hilt, the metal-fitted end of the scabbard resting against the shining leg of a riding boot. A black bird with ruffled feathers sat on the sorcerer’s shoulder.

It was a kestrel.

‘You’re here, Witcher,’ Istredd said, proffering the kestrel a gloved hand and gently and cautiously setting the bird down on the canopy of the well.

‘Yes, I am, Istredd.’

‘I hadn’t expected you to come. I thought you’d leave town.’

‘I didn’t.’

The sorcerer laughed loudly and freely, throwing his head back.

‘She wanted… she wanted to save us,’ he said. ‘Both of us. Never mind, Geralt. Let’s cross swords. Only one of us can remain.’

‘Do you mean to fight with a sword?’

‘Does that surprise you? After all, you do. Come on, have at you.’

‘Why, Istredd? Why with swords and not with magic?’

The sorcerer blanched and his mouth twitched anxiously.

‘Have at you, I said!’ he shouted. ‘This is not the time for questions; that time has passed! Now is the time for deeds!’