Анджей Сапковский - Lesser Evil

"What?"

"Can't you understand, Caldemeyn? She deceived me. They will not leave. They will force Stregobor to leave the tower, just like they forced the Baron of Tridam. Or, they will force me to… Don't you understand?

They will start murdering people at the fair. Your market, here within these walls is a true trap!"

"By all the gods, Geralt! Sit down! Where to, Geralt?"

Marilka, frightened by the uproar, sobbed huddling in a corner of the kitchen "I told you," shouted Libushe, pointing her hand at the hexer, "I told you! He brings only evil."

"Shut up, woman! Geralt! Sit down!"

"They must be prevented. Now, before they enter the market. Call the guards. As soon as they leave the tavern, get good hold of them, and have them bound or fettered."

"Geralt, be sensible. It cannot be done. We mustn't touch them if they have done nothing. They will resist, blood will be shed. They are professionals: they'll slaughter my people. If Audeon learns that, my head will be forfeit. All right, I'll gather my men, I'll go to the fair, and there I'll keep my eye on them…"

"It's good for nothing, Caldemeyn. As soon as the crowd enters the square, you won't prevent panic and carnage. They must be pacified at once, while the market is still empty.

"It's defiance of the law! I may not allow for that. All about this half-elven and Tridam may be only gossip. You may be mistaken, and what then? Audoen will skin me alive."

"One must choose lesser evil!"

"Geralt! I forbid! As the sheriff, I forbid! Leave the sword! Halt!"

Marilka was shouting, having put her little hands over her mouth.

Shading his eyes with his hand, Civril was looking at the sun coming out from behind the trees. The market was beginning to come alive. Wagons and carts were rambling, the first merchants were already beginning to display their goods on the stalls. A hammer was banging, a cockerel was crowing, seagulls were crying loud.

"A fine day this is going to be," said Fifteen deep in thought.

Civril looked at him with disgust but said nothing.

"What about the horses, Tavik?" asked Nohorn, pulling on his gauntlets.

"Ready and saddled. Civril, there are still few of them in that market."

"More will come."

"We should eat something."

"Later."

"Sure. You'll have time, later. And you'll feel like it."

"Look," said Fifteen suddenly.

The hexer was approaching from the direction of main street. Now he was walking among the stalls and making straight for them.

"A-ha." said Civril, "Renfri was right. Give me the crossbow, Nohorn."

He bowed down, and pulled the string back, putting his foot on the weapon's stirrup. Then he carefully placed the bolt in its groove. The hexer was walking. Civril raised the crossbow.

"Not a step further, hexer!"

"Geralt halted. He was about forty paces away from the group.

"Where is Renfri?"

The half-caste had a scowl written across his pretty face.

"She's at the tower, making a certain proposal to the witch. She knew you would come. She told me to pass two things to you.

"Speak."

"The first is the following message: 'I am what I am. Choose. Either me, or the other, lesser one.' I've been told you sort of know what it means."

The hexer nodded, then raised his hand, grasping the hilt of his sword peeking from over his right shoulder. The blade flashed, drawing an arc over his head. Then he slowly advanced towards the group.

Civril chuckled with evil, mischievous laughter.

"So, still. She anticipated that too, hexer. Then, in a moment, you will get the other thing she asked to pass to you. Straight between the eyes."

The hexer was walking. The half-elven raised the crossbow to his cheek. Everything became very quiet.

The bowstring twanged. The hexer waved his sword, a prolonged whine of stricken metal could be heard, and the bolt flew up and, turning somersaults, clattered on the roof, and thudded in the rainwater pipe. The hexer was walking.

"Diverted it…" Fifteen groaned. "Diverted it in flight…"

"Round up," commanded Civril. Swords, being unsheathed, sang; the group closed their ranks: now standing hand in hand, with their many blades pointing outward.

The hexer quickened his pace, his gait now amazingly soft and smooth, he changed into a run — not headlong onto the group spiked with swords but to its side, encircling it in a closing spiral.

Tavik couldn't stand it and moved on quickly, cutting the distance.

The twins followed close.

"Don't disperse!" yelled Civril turning his head and losing the sight of the hexer. He swore and jumped aside, seeing that the group went apart, and were dancing a mad dance among the stalls.

Tavik was first. A moment earlier he had been chasing Geralt, and now all of a sudden he noticed the hexer, running by him in the opposite direction, to the left. He made a few little steps to lessen the impact but the hexer had sped by, before he had time to raise the sword. Tavik felt a mighty stroke just over his hip. He turned to find himself falling.

Already down on his knees, Tavik looked at his hip in bewilderment and started to yell.

Attacking simultaneously the black shape rushing at them, the twins ran into each other, and collided with their shoulders, losing the rhythm for a moment. It was enough. Vyr, slashed across the whole chest, folded in half, and with his head bent low took a few steps and fell into a vegetable stall. Nimir was hit on the temple, turned on the spot and dropped into the sewer: heavily, inertly.

The market swarmed with fleeing salesmen, the collapsing stalls gave a groan, raising dust and cries. Tremor in his hands, Tavik tried to lift his weight on them once again and fell.

"From the left, Fifteen!" roared Nohorn, running in a semicircle, to get the hexer from behind.

Fifteen turned fast. Not fast enough. He was slashed across the abdomen; he withstood and prepared a blow. Then he was caught for the second time: on the side of his neck, just below the ear. With muscles tensed, he took four staggering paces and fell heavily on a cart full of fish. The cart wheeled away. Fifteen slid down to the cobbles silver with the scales.

Civril and Nohorn attacked simultaneously from both sides, the elf with a powerful cut from above, Nohorn kneeling, low and flat. Both the blows were parried, two metallic clangs resounding together. Civril jumped to the side, tripped, managed to balance on his legs, clutching to the wooden framework of a stall. Nohorn rushed forward and covered him with his sword held vertically. He deflected a blow, so powerful that he was thrust back, and forced to kneel. Springing to his feet, he got ready to parry, yet he was too slow. He got a slash across the face, symmetrical to his old scar.

Civril used his back to push himself back from the stall, jumped over the falling Nohorn, and attacked with both hands, half-turned. He missed and immediately jumped back. He did not feel the blow. His legs gave way only when, after a subconscious parry, he was trying to pass from a feint to another attack. His sword fell off his hand, slashed on the inner side, just above the elbow. He fell down to his knees, tried to stand up but failed. Dropping his head on his knees, he froze in a red pool, among scattered cabbage, pretzels and fish.

Renfri entered the market.

She was coming slowly, with catlike steps, meandering among the carts and stalls. The crowd, previously buzzing like a swarm of hornets in the streets and by the walls of the houses, now quietened down. Geralt was standing motionless, sword in his lowered hand. The girl approached him and stopped ten paces away. He noticed that she had chain-mail under her short doublet. It was short, hardly covering the hips.

"You have made a choice," she declared. "You sure it is the right one?"