“The horses all right, Tavik?” asked Nohorn, pulling on his gloves.

“Saddled and ready. But, there’s still not many of them in the marketplace.”

“There’ll be more.”

“We should eat.”

“Later.”

“Dead right. You’ll have time later. And an appetite.”

“Look,” said Fifteen suddenly.

The witcher was approaching from the main street, walking between stalls, coming straight toward them.

“Renfri was right,” Civril said. “Give me the crossbow, Nohorn.” He hunched over and, holding the strap down with his foot, pulled the string back. He placed the bolt carefully in the groove as the witcher continued to approach. Civril raised the crossbow.

“Not one step closer, witcher!”

Geralt stopped about forty paces from the group.

“Where’s Renfri?”

The half-blood’s pretty face contorted. “At the tower. She’s making the sorcerer an offer he can’t refuse. But she knew you would come. She left a message for you.”

“Speak.”

“I am what I am. Choose. Either me, or a lesser.’ You’re supposed to know what it means.”

The witcher nodded, raised his hand above his right shoulder, and drew his sword. The blade traced a glistening arc above his head. Walking slowly, he made his way toward the group.

Civril laughed nastily, ominously.

“Renfri said this would happen, witcher, and left us something special to give you. Right between the eyes.”

The witcher kept walking, and the half-elf raised the crossbow to his cheek. It grew very quiet.

The bowstring hummed, the witcher’s sword flashed and the bolt flew upward with a metallic whine, spinning in the air until it clattered against the roof and rumbled into the gutter.

“He deflected it…” groaned Fifteen. “Deflected it in flight—”

“As one,” ordered Civril. Blades hissed as they were drawn from sheaths, the group pressed shoulder to shoulder, bristling with blades.

The witcher came on faster; his fluid walk became a run—not straight at the group quivering with swords, but circling it in a tightening spiral.

As Geralt circled the group, Tavik’s nerve failed. He rushed the witcher, the twins following him.

“Don’t disperse!” Civril roared, shaking his head and losing sight of the witcher. He swore and jumped aside, seeing the group fall apart, scattering around the market stalls.

Tavik went first. He was chasing the witcher when he saw Geralt running in the opposite direction, toward him. He skidded, trying to stop, but the witcher shot past before he could raise his sword. Tavik felt a hard blow just above his hip, fell to his knees and, when he saw his hip, started screaming.

The twins simultaneously attacked the black, blurred shape rushing toward them, mistimed their attack and collided with each other as Geralt slashed Vyr across the chest and Nimir in the temple, leaving one twin to stagger, head down, into a vegetable stall, and the other to spin in place and fall limply into the gutter.

The marketplace boiled with vendors running away, stalls clattering to the ground and screams rising in the dusty air. Tavik tried to stumble to his trembling legs and fell painfully to the ground.