“Your argument is charming, Captain, fascinating even,” mocked Dandilion. “You’re trying to bait a man ambushed in the forest with humanitarianism, calling on his nobler feelings. You’re asking him, as I understand, to deign not to spill the blood of the brigands who attacked him. He’s to take pity on the thugs because the thugs are poor, have got wives, children and, who knows, maybe even mothers. But don’t you think, Captain Cranmer, that your worrying is premature? Because I look at your lancers and see that their knees are shaking at the very thought of fighting with Geralt of Rivia, the witcher who dealt with a striga alone, with his bare hands. There won’t be any bloodshed here; nobody will be harmed here—aside from those who might break their legs running away.”

“I,” said the dwarf calmly and pugnaciously, “have nothing to reproach my knees with. I’ve never run away from anyone and I’m not about to change my ways. I’m not married, don’t know anything about any children and I’d prefer not to bring my mother, a woman with whom I’m not very well acquainted, into this. But I will carry out the orders I’ve been given. To the letter, as always. Without calling on any feelings, I ask Geralt of Rivia to make a decision. I will accept whatever he decides and will behave accordingly.”

They looked each other in the eyes, the dwarf and the witcher.

“Very well,” Geralt said finally. “Let’s deal with it. It’s a pity to waste the day.”

“You agree, then.” Falwick raised his head and his eyes glistened. “You’ll fight a duel with the highborn Tailles of Dorndal?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Prepare yourself.”

“I’m ready.” Geralt pulled on his gauntlets. “Let’s not waste time. There’ll be hell if Nenneke finds out about this. So let’s sort it out quickly. Dandilion, keep calm. It’s got nothing to do with you. Am I right, Cranmer, sir?”

“Absolutely,” the dwarf stated firmly and looked at Falwick. “Absolutely, sir. Whatever happens, it only concerns you.”

The witcher took the sword from his back.

“No,” said Falwick, drawing his. “You’re not going to fight with that razor of yours. Take my sword.”

Geralt shrugged. He took the count’s blade and swiped it to try it out.

“Heavy,” he said coldly. “We could just as easily use spades.”

“Tailles has the same. Equal chances.”

“You’re very funny, Falwick.”

The soldiers surrounded the glade, forming a loose circle. Tailles and the witcher stood facing each other.

“Tallies? What do you say to an apology?”

The young knight screwed up his lips, folded his left arm behind his back and froze in a fencing position.

“No?” Geralt smiled. “You don’t want to listen to the voice of reason? Pity.”

Tailles squatted down, leapt and attacked without warning. The witcher didn’t even make an effort to parry and avoided the flat point with a swift half-turn. The knight swiped broadly. The blade cut through the air once more. Geralt dodged beneath it in an agile pirouette, jumped softly aside and, with a short, light feint, threw Tailles off his rhythm. Tailles cursed, cut broadly from the right, lost his balance for a moment and tried to regain it while, instinctively, clumsily, holding his sword high to defend himself. The witcher struck with the speed and force of a lightning bolt, extending his arm to its full length and slashing straight ahead. The heavy sword thundered against Tailles’ blade, deflecting it so hard it hit the knight in the face. Tailles howled, fell to his knees and touched the grass with his forehead.