No, she couldn’t fight him. Not yet.

The Tower. Only the tower could save her. And the portal. As on Thanedd, when the sorcerer Vilgefortz was upon her, was already reaching for her…

The only hope was the Tower of the Swallow.

The fog lifted.

Ciri reined in her horse, suddenly feeling a dreadful heat. Unable to believe what she saw. What was in front of her.

Bonhart saw it too. And yelled triumphantly.

There was no tower at the end of the lake. There weren’t even the ruins of a tower; there was nothing. Just a barely visible, barely outlined hillock, just a mound of boulders covered in frozen, leafless stalks.

‘That’s your tower!’ he roared. ‘That’s your magical tower! That’s your salvation! A heap of stones!’

The girl seemed not to hear or see. She urged the mare nearer the hillock, onto the stony mound. She raised both hands towards the sky, as though cursing the heavens for what had befallen her.

‘I told you that you were mine!’ roared Bonhart, spurring on his bay. ‘That I’ll do what I want with you! That no one will stop me from doing it! Not people, not gods, not devils, nor demons! Or enchanted towers! You’re mine, witcher girl!’

The bay’s shoes jangled on the icy surface of the lake.

The fog suddenly swirled, boiled under the impact of a strong wind appearing as if from nowhere. The bay whinnied and danced, baring its teeth on the bit. Bonhart leaned back in the saddle, and tugged on the reins with all his might, because the horse was frantic, tossing its head, stamping and slipping on the ice.

In front of him–between him and the shore where Ciri was standing–a snowy-white unicorn was dancing on the ice, rearing up, as if on a heraldic shield.

‘Don’t try tricks like that on me!’ roared the bounty hunter, fighting to get control of his horse. ‘You won’t frighten me with sorcery! I’ll catch you, Ciri! I’ll kill you this time, witcher girl! You’re mine!’

The fog swirled again, and seethed, forming bizarre shapes. The shapes became clearer and clearer. They were horsemen. Nightmarish silhouettes of eerie horsemen.

Bonhart stared goggle-eyed.

Skeleton riders rode skeleton horses, dressed in rust-riddled armour and chainmail, ragged cloaks, dented and corroded helmets decorated with buffalo horns and the remains of ostrich and peacock plumes. The spectres’ eyes shined with a bluish light from under their visors. Ragged pennants swished.

An armed man with a crown on his helmet and a necklace bumping against the rusty cuirass on his chest, galloped at the head of the demonic cavalcade.

Begone, rumbled a voice in Bonhart’s head. Begone, mortal. She is not yours. She is ours. Begone! There was no denying Bonhart had one thing: courage. He did not take fright at the apparitions. He overcame his terror, and did not give in to panic.