“As I suspected,” he muttered. “They’re bringing him offerings.”

“That’s just it,” said the poet, indicating the candle. “And they burn a tallow candle for the devil. But they’re feeding him seeds, I see, as if he were a finch. Plague, what a bloody pigsty. Everything here is all sticky with honey and birch tar. What—“The bard’s next words were drowned by a loud, sinister bleating. Something rustled and stamped in the hemp; then the strangest creature Geralt had ever seen emerged from the thicket.

The creature was about half a rod tall with bulging eyes and a goat’s horns and beard. The mouth, a soft, busy slit, also brought a chewing goat to mind. Its nether regions were covered with long, thick, dark-red hair right down to the cleft hooves. The devil had a long tail ending in a brush-like tassel which wagged energetically.

“Uk! Uk!” barked the monster, stamping his hooves. “What do you want here? Leave! Leave or I’ll ram you down. Uk! Uk!”

“Has anyone ever kicked your arse, little goat?” Dandilion couldn’t stop himself.

“Uk! Uk! Beeeeee!” bleated the goathorn in agreement, or denial, or simply bleating for the sake of it.

“Shut up, Dandilion,” growled the witcher. “Not a word.”

“Blebleblebeeeee!” The creature gurgled furiously, his lips parting wide to expose yellow horse-like teeth. “Uk! Uk! Bleubeeeeubleuuuuubleeeeeeee!”

“Most certainly”—nodded Dandilion—“you can take the barrel-organ and bell when you go home—”

“Stop it, damn you,” hissed Geralt. “Keep your stupid jokes to yourself—”

“Jokes!” roared the goathorn loudly and leapt up. “Jokes? New jokers have come, have they? They’ve brought iron balls, have they? I’ll give you iron balls, you scoundrels, you. Uk! Uk! Uk! You want to joke, do you? Here are some jokes for you! Here are your balls!”

The creature sprang up and gave a sudden swipe with his hand. Dandilion howled and sat down hard on the path, clasping his forehead. The creature bleated and aimed again. Something whizzed past Geralt’s ear.

“Here are your balls! Brrreee!”

An iron ball, an inch in diameter, thwacked the witcher in the shoulder and the next hit Dandilion in the knee. The poet cursed foully and scrambled away, Geralt running after him as balls whizzed above his head.

“Uk! Uk!” screamed the goathorn, leaping up and down. “I’ll give you balls! You shitty jokers!”

Another ball whizzed through the air. Dandilion cursed even more foully as he grabbed the back of his head. Geralt threw himself to one side, among the hemp, but didn’t avoid the ball that hit him in the shoulder. The goathorn’s aim was true and he appeared to have an endless supply of balls. The witcher, stumbling through the thicket, heard yet another triumphant bleat from the victorious goathorn, followed by the whistle of a flying ball, a curse and the patter of Dandilion’s feet scurrying away along the path.

And then silence fell.

IV

“Well, well, Geralt.” Dandilion held a horseshoe he’d cooled in a bucket to his forehead. “That’s not what I expected. A horned freak with a goatee like a shaggy billy goat, and he chased you away like some upstart. And I got it in the head. Look at that bump!”