There were two archers, and both had squirrels’ tails in their hats. One remained at the top of the staircase, pulling his bowstring back, while the other drew his sword and hurtled down the stairway, several steps at a time. Geralt pushed Dorregaray aside and leapt to his feet, drawing his sword. An arrow sang, but the Witcher interrupted the song, deflecting the arrowhead with a quick blow of his sword. The other elf, already close, hesitated for a moment on seeing the arrow deflected. But only for a moment. He came at the Witcher, swinging his blade and ready to strike. Geralt made a short parry, obliquely, so that the elf’s sword slid across his. The elf lost his balance, the Witcher spun around smoothly and slashed him across the side of the neck below his ear. Just once. Once was enough.

The archer at the top of the stairway bent his bow again but did not have time to release the string. Geralt saw a flash. The elf screamed, spread out his arms and fell forwards, tumbling down the steps. The back of his jerkin was on fire.

Another sorcerer ran down the steps. On seeing the Witcher, he stopped and raised a hand. Geralt didn’t waste time with explanations but flattened himself on the ground as a fiery lightning bolt flew over him with a hiss, pulverising a statue of a faun.

‘Stop!’ he yelled. ‘It’s me, the Witcher!’

‘Damn it,’ the sorcerer panted, running over to Geralt, who could not remember him from the banquet. ‘I took you for one of those elven thugs… How is Dorregaray? Is he still alive?’

‘I think so…’

‘Quickly, to the other side of the bridge!’

They dragged Dorregaray across. And luck was on their side, because in their haste they paid no attention to the wavering and vanishing illusion. No one was pursuing them, but the sorcerer nonetheless extended a hand, chanting a spell, and sent a lightning bolt to destroy the bridge. The stones crashed down the walls of the abyss.

‘That ought to hold them back,’ he said.

The Witcher wiped away the blood pouring from Dorregaray’s mouth.

‘He has a punctured lung. Can you help him?’

‘I can,’ said Marti Södergren, hauling herself up the steps from the tunnel leading from Aretuza. ‘What’s happening, Carduin? Who shot him?’

‘Scoia’tael,’ said the sorcerer, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. ‘There’s a battle raging in Garstang. Bloody rabble. They’re all as bad as each other! Philippa handcuffed Vilgefortz during the night, and Vilgefortz and Francesca Findabair brought Squirrels to the island! And Tissaia de Vries… She’s stirred everything up!’

‘Be clearer, Carduin!’

‘I’m not hanging around here talking! I’m fleeing to Loxia, and from there I’m going to teleport to Kovir. Everyone in Garstang can go ahead and slaughter each other! It’s all meaningless now! It’s war! This mayhem was concocted by Philippa to allow the kings to start a war with Nilfgaard! Meanwhile Meve of Lyria and Demavend of Aedirn have provoked Nilfgaard! Do you understand that?’