The sylvan was the first to jump up, and, lowering his horned head, charged. But Geralt was already on his feet and effortlessly dodged the attack, grabbed the creature by a horn, tugged hard, threw him to the ground and crushed him with his knees. The sylvan bleated and spat straight into the witcher’s eyes like a camel suffering from excess saliva. The witcher instinctively stepped back without releasing the devil’s horns. The sylvan, trying to toss his head, kicked with both hooves at once and—strangely—hit the mark with both. Geralt swore nastily, but didn’t release his grip. He pulled the sylvan up, pinned him to the creaking poles and kicked him in a shaggy knee with all his might; then he leaned over and spat right into his ear. The sylvan howled and snapped his blunt teeth.

“Don’t do unto others…” panted the witcher, “…what you would not have them do to you. Shall we play on?” The sylvan gurgled, howled and spat fiercely, but Geralt held him firmly by the horns and pressed his head down hard, making the spittle hit the sylvan’s own hooves, which tore at the ground, sending up clouds of dust and weeds.

The next few minutes passed in an intense skirmish and exchange of insults and kicks. If Geralt was pleased about anything, it was only that nobody could see him—for it was a truly ridiculous sight.

The force of the next kick tore the combatants apart and threw them in opposite directions, into the hemp thicket. The sylvan got up before the witcher and rushed to escape, limpings heavily. Geralt, panting and wiping his brow, rushed in pursuit. They forced their way through the hemp and ran into the hops. The witcher heard the pounding of a galloping horse, the sound he’d been waiting for.

“Here, Dandilion! Here!” he yelled. “In the hops!”

He saw the mount breast right in front of him and was knocked over. He bounced off the horse as though it were a rock and tumbled onto his back. The world darkened. He managed to roll to the side, behind the hop poles, to avoid the hooves. He sprung up nimbly but another rider rode into him, knocking him down again. Then suddenly, someone threw themselves at him and pinned him to the ground.

Then there was a flash, and a piercing pain in the back of his head.

And darkness.

VI

There was sand on his lips. When he tried to spit it out, he realized he was lying facedown on the ground. And he was tied up. He raised his head, a little and heard voices.

He was lying on the forest floor, by a pine tree. Some twenty paces away stood unsaddled horses. They were obscured behind the feathery fronds of ferns, but one of those horses was, without a doubt, Dandilion’s chestnut.

“Three sacks of corn,” he heard. “Good, Torque. Very good. You’ve done well.”

“That’s not all,” said the bleating voice, which could only be the sylvan devil. “Look at this, Galarr. It looks like beans but it’s completely white. And the size of it! And this, this is called oilseed. They make oil from it.”