“Is there nothing you need?” the guard continued, stinking of onions and rotting teeth. “The councilor will be pleased that you have no complaints.”

Another blow, in the same place. The witcher choked and would have puked, but he had nothing to throw up.

The bald guard turned sideways. He was changing hands.

Wham! Geralt looked at the buckle of his belt again. Although it seemed strange, there was no hole above it through which the wall could be seen.

“Well?” The guard backed away a little, no doubt planning to take a wider swing. “Don’t you have any wishes? Mr. Laurelnose asked whether you have any. But why aren’t you saying anything? Tongue-tied? I’ll get it straight for you!”

Wham!

Geralt didn’t faint this time either. And he had to faint because he cared for his internal organs. In order to faint, he had to force the guard to—

The guard spat, bared his teeth and rubbed his fist again.

“Well? No wishes at all?”

“Just one…” moaned the witcher, raising his head with difficulty. “That you burst, you son-of-a-whore.”

The bald guard ground his teeth, stepped back and took a swing—this time, according to Geralt’s plan, aiming for his head. But the blow never came. The guard suddenly gobbled like a turkey, grew red, grabbed his stomach with both hands, howled, roared with pain…

And burst.

VII

And what am I to do with you?”

A blindingly bright ribbon of lightning cut the darkened sky outside the window, followed by a sharp, drawn-out crash of thunder. The downpour was getting harder as the storm cloud passed over Rinde.

Geralt and Chireadan, seated on a bench under a huge tapestry depicting the Prophet Lebiodus pasturing his sheep, remained silent, modestly hanging their heads. Mayor Neville was pacing the chamber, snorting and panting with anger.

“You bloody, shitty sorcerers!” he yelled suddenly, standing still. “Are you persecuting my town, or what? Aren’t there any other towns in the world?”

The elf and witcher remained silent.

“To do something like—” the mayor choked. “To turn the warder… Like a tomato! To pulp! To red pulp! It’s inhuman!”

“Inhuman and godless,” repeated the priest, also present. “So inhuman that even a fool could guess who’s behind it. Yes, mayor. We both know Chireadan and the man here, who calls himself a witcher, wouldn’t have enough Force to do this. It is all the work of Yennefer, that witch cursed by the gods!” There was a clap of thunder outside, as if confirming the priest’s words. “It’s her and no one else,” continued Krepp. “There’s no question about it. Who, if not Yennefer, would want revenge upon Laurelnose?”

“Hehehe,” chuckled the mayor suddenly. “That’s the thing I’m least angry about. Laurelnose has been scheming against me; he’s been after my office. And now the people aren’t going to respect him. When they remember how he got it in the arse—”

“That’s all it needs, Mr. Neville, you to applaud the crime.” Krepp frowned. “Let me remind you that had I not thrown an exorcism at the witcher, he would have raised his hand to strike me and the temple’s majesty—”