She dragged him down some stairs. His broken leg and arm bounced on the steps. The pain was revived, it bit into his bowels, into his temples, flashed in his eyes, ears, to the top of his head. But he did not scream. He knew that a shout would relieve him, but did not shout. He just opened his mouth, which also brought relief.
He heard an explosion.
At the top of the stairs stood Tissaia de Vries. Her hair was in disarray, her face covered with dust. She raised both hands, her fingers burned. She shouted an incan’tation, and the fire dancing on her fingers burst forth in a fireball which roared down the stairs, the flames crackling and blinding. The witcher heard the rumble from below, the walls crumbling, the shrill screams of the burnt.
‘Tissaia, no!’ Triss yelled desperately. ‘Don
