The creature was humanoid, and dressed in clothes which, though tattered, were of good quality and not lacking in stylish and useless ornamentation. His human form, however, reached no higher than the soiled collar of his tunic, for above it loomed a gigantic, hairy, bear-like head with enormous ears, a pair of wild eyes and terrifying jaws full of crooked fangs in which a red tongue flickered like flame.

“Flee, mortal man!” the monster roared, flapping his paws but not moving from the spot. “I’ll devour you! Tear you to pieces!” The witcher didn’t move, didn’t lower his sword. “Are you deaf? Away with you!” The creature screamed, then made a sound somewhere between a pig’s squeal and a stag’s bellowing roar, making the shutters rattle and clatter and shaking rubble and plaster from the sills. Neither witcher nor monster moved.

“Clear off while you’re still in one piece!” roared the creature, less sure of himself. “Because if you don’t, then—”

“Then what?” interrupted Geralt.

The monster suddenly gasped and tilted his monstrous head. “Look at him, isn’t he brave?” He spoke calmly, baring his fangs and glowering at Geralt with bloodshot eyes. “Lower that iron, if you please. Perhaps you’ve not realized you’re in my courtyard? Or maybe it’s customary, wherever you come from, to threaten people with swords in their own courtyards?”

“It is customary,” Geralt agreed, “when faced with people who greet their guests with a roar and the cry that they’re going to tear you to pieces.”

“Pox on it!” The monster got himself worked up. “And he’ll insult me on top of it all, this straggler. A guest, is he? Pushes his way into the yard, ruins someone else’s flowers, plays the lord and thinks that he’ll be brought bread and salt. Bah!”

The creature spat, gasped and shut his jaws. The lower fangs protruded, making him look like a boar.

“So?” The witcher spoke after a moment, lowering his sword. “Are we going to carry on standing like this?”

“And what do you suggest instead? Lying down?” snorted the monster. “Put that iron away, I said.”

The witcher nimbly slipped the weapon into its scabbard and, without lowering his arm, stroked the hilt which rose above his shoulder.

“I’d prefer you,” he said, “not to make any sudden moves. This sword can always be drawn again, faster than you imagine.”

“I noticed,” rasped the monster. “If it wasn’t for that, you’d have been out of this gate a long time ago, with my bootprint on your arse. What do you want here? How did you get here?”

“I got lost,” lied the witcher.

“You got lost,” repeated the monster, twisting his jaws in a menacing grin. “Well, unlose your way. Out of the gate, turn your left ear to the sun and keep walking and you’ll soon get back to the highway. Well? What are you waiting for?”

“Is there any water?” asked Geralt calmly. “The horse is thirsty. And so am I, if that doesn’t inconvenience you.”